


but i feel it burning, like the winter wind

by rigelsenshis



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, F/F, F/M, M/M, also slightly aged up characters, and i'm a really huge yoi mess, huge mentions of cold and fire because you get it's a song of ice and fire, i'm a really huge asoiaf nerd, the genesis story is done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:12:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9577613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rigelsenshis/pseuds/rigelsenshis
Summary: «Yuri is surprised he managed to open is eyes— the temperatures had dropped so low the night before he almost expected to find his eyelids glued together. I suppose it wouldn’t even be a novelty in this seven-damned place.He rolls on one side, tucking his knees close to his chest and contemplating the cracks and spots on the small writing desk right in front of him. The sad truth is Yuri lacks the willpower required to push himself out of the bed that’s been assigned to him— not when his mind insists on bringing him back to the Rock, with the sweet sound of waves breaking under his window. There’s no Sunset Sea at Castle Black. Only the Wall. Only ice. »a song of ice and fire!au





	1. a lion's head beneath my bed, all these things that i once had

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact about me: i'm a massive asoiaf nerd and i read the world of ice and fire too much for my own good  
> another fun fact: yuri on ice has stormed over my life and consumed my existence  
> you see where i'm going with this?
> 
> there's not much else to say over the fact that this is the asoiaf!au no one asked for but me (because i always ask for asoiaf!aus, again, check the part about me being a giant nerd), that there will be no explicit sexual content between Yuri and Otabek because Yuri is sixteen, that i've tried to keep things as close to both canons as possible, and that the ten chapters are already planned out and half written, so there shouldn't be any terrible gap in which i disappear for two months (been there done that). i'm thinking of one chapter a week, always around the weekend.
> 
> also, this whole charade wouldn't be possible without **Maki** who is an amazing beta and the first to see that Yuri Plisetsky is very clearly a lion from the Rock, and without Of Monsters and Men, who have inspired every title you'll see in this fic. _grazie_.

Yuri is surprised he managed to open is eyes— the temperatures had dropped so low the night before he almost expected to find his eyelids glued together. _I suppose it wouldn’t even be a novelty in this seven-damned place_. He rolls on one side, tucking his knees close to his chest and contemplating the cracks and spots on the small writing desk right in front of him. The sad truth is Yuri lacks the willpower required to push himself out of the bed that’s been assigned to him— not when his mind insists on bringing him back to the Rock, with the sweet sound of waves breaking under his window. There’s no Sunset Sea at Castle Black. Only the Wall. _Only ice_.

Yuri’s bed is not even that warm or comfortable, to be completely honest, but it certainly is much better than what’s waiting for him outside. In the almost perfect silence of his little room, he can hear the Castle already bustling with activity— horses being walked around to move some blood back in their legs after the night, recruits training in the main yard, ravens cawing, even a few murmured prayers to the Lord of Light. A shocked Yuri, raised in the faith of the Seven since the day he was _conceived_ , had learned on his first days at the Wall that the Night’s Watch really doesn’t care about which god or gods you worship as long as you can hold a sword properly and take your shift of cleaning duty without complaining. 

"The Night’s Watch is full of hard workers, Yuratchka," his grandfather had said after his little _incident_ , "They will teach you some humility. You better be ready to learn it."

All these hard workers have apparently grown too numb from the cold to actually feel it. Or maybe have already lost every possible limb to frostbite and now couldn’t care less. After a little more than four weeks, Yuri is still trying to comprehend how cold can feel this _burning_ — like a flame that burrows deep in his bones and makes them jitter, a feeling that reminds him of his grandfather’s longsword and the sound it makes when it beats against his boots as he walks through the sun-drowned halls of Casterly Rock. Yuri sighs. He misses his grandfather, although he wouldn’t admit it to a living soul. He misses grandmother Lilia and her lessons on the proper way to greet minor lords and bannermen. _Maybe if I had listened to her a bit more, I wouldn’t be here_. He misses Casterly Rock too, the tunnels and walkways he knows like the palm of his hand, the sun diving into the sea, sparkling it golden like his House’s crest.  
_When will that old man of Commander decide that it’s been wasted enough time on the lordling and send me home?_ It’s out of sheer spite that he gets up, throwing back the rough woolen cover and rushing to put his boots on so he doesn’t lose a toe or two. 

His doublet and furs are next— all of them in grey, because he isn’t a man of the Watch and he never will be, but he also looks like an idiot walking around Castle Black sporting his House’s colors. The South feels like eternities away from this place, and so Yuri’s heavy chain of gold lion heads remains hidden away at the bottom of his trunk, as do the fine tailored tunic and pants he arrived into. His ring, though, that he still wears, lion roaring golden and emerald. Even here he’s still who he was born to be— heir to Casterly Rock, future Warden of the West. _There’s no forgetting that_ , Yuri muses as he puts on his heavy coat and straps it secure, _not for me, not for any of the brothers_. He’s young, yes, but he’s not stupid— Yuri knows what’s being said behind his back, the whispers, the jabs, the ' _lordling_ ' spat out like deadly insults. 

He spent his first week picking fights with every single living being that so much looked at him the wrong way, and getting knocked down into the mud— because again, here nobody cares that he’s as highborn as one can be in the Seven Kingdoms. _And what was going through Viktor’s mind when he agreed that yes, the knife is an excellent choice for a weapon, Yurio, you just need to hone your skills with it?_ Yuri picks up his knife, lean and graceful, made of deadly Valyrian steel— Viktor had spent a small fortune to acquire it, but when he had given it to Yuri for his five-and-tenth nameday he had been smiling. Yuri remembers that. Yuri also doesn’t want to think about it, so instead he choses to focus on how that same knife was punched away from his hand times and times again by older, more experienced brothers on the Watch. Now, he doesn’t spit out insults as much as he used to do— Yuri manages to keep his head low and do as he’s asked, running errands for the Lord Commander and the Maester, working in the stables and helping the cooks. He’s being humbled and he knows it. The idea of King Jean’s smug face at hearing news of him from the edge of the world is enough to send him into a frenzy. _I hope you slash your ass open on one of the swords of your blasted Throne_. Yuri fastens his weapon belt with short, angry movements and kisses a day that might have been peaceful goodbye. The face of the Seven Kingdom’s sovereign is not going to leave him alone anytime soon, and King Jean’s blue eyes inevitably morph into Viktor’s. Viktor who is somewhere beyond the Narrow Sea and Yuri hates him, hates him for leaving, for forgetting about him, _for the looks full of desire that passed between him and the Sealord’s son—_

Yuri slams his bedchamber’s door open and almost collides with a mountain in a black cloak.  
"In a rage already, before noon? That must be a special event _even_ for you."  
There’s no reproach in Otabek’s voice, though, only the faintest trace of amusement. And Yuri stops dead in his boots to look up at him— black furs, black hair, a longsword strapped to his back and dark, serious eyes. The Night’s Watch brother incarnate, and incidentally also the only person that didn’t use Yuri as a training dummy when he first arrived. As a result, Yuri had followed him around everywhere— because Otabek is built like a bear and everybody respects him around Castle Black, until his opportunistic and desperate act of self-preservation had started morphing into a friendship.  
"It’s this blasted cold," Yuri mutters as a response. "I hate it. I can’t feel my fingers. I don’t deserve any of this." He adds, as he begins walking down the wooden stairs that lead from the sleeping quarters to the main yard— he doesn’t bother with the mess hall, Yuri already knows that it’s too late for breakfast anyway.

Otabek follows him, silent despite his size, and Yuri can feel his words forming way before he actually says them.  
"Didn’t you— didn’t you lash out at King Jean and tried to kick him in the groin? Or am I remembering wrong?"  
If Yuri weren’t as familiar with the way Otabek’s mind works, he could almost take offense. But he doesn’t— because again, Otabek is smirking.  
"The shithead deserved it," and somewhere, Yuri’s grandfather is shaking his head.  
"The _shithead_ , as you say, is our King," not that Otabek really cares about what happens in King’s Landing— the capital feels even more alien here than Casterly Rock does.  
"That just makes him a shithead with a fancy chair," Yuri spits back. Otabek, walking beside him, simply shrugs.  
"Speaking of which, is the Iron Throne really that uncomfortable? Every book that describes it always tells of how _sharp_ and _deadly_ it is," Otabek muses.  
Yuri knows he could follow his own thoughts without his help, but he answers anyway. "Well, it is meant to struck fear in the Realm."  
"Yes, but wouldn’t it be better if it struck fear without risking to kill its owner?"  
"You really don’t understand how royalty works, do you?"  
It’s not the first time they found themselves arguing about nobility, its merits and its limits— Otabek has the mind of a maester, Yuri thinks, and his observations are quick and brilliant. On the other hand, Yuri is worried about how many aspects of the system he was born into can’t be explained. _At least, not by me_.

"No, I really don’t."  
Otabek’s expression grows distant. His eyes turn as cold as the ice of the Wall, and Yuri wonders if he overstepped. He knows Otabek is thinking that he never really had a chance of discovering how their monarchy works, since he’s been a brother of the Watch from the day he turned ten. _That’s nine years. Half his life_. He also wonders if he should bite his tongue, but he never was one to do that— that’s how he ended up in this whole situation in the first place. So he speaks.  
"Why did you join so young?"  
Yuri’s words fall into an uneasy silence, the same one that wraps Castle Black when it’s under a thick cover of snow. Otabek won’t answer this question— he never does.  
"Would you like to train before lunch? I’ve already seen to my duties and as far as I know you haven’t been summoned," Otabek proposes.  
He closes himself inside a fortress that’s as impregnable as the Eyrie in the Vale, Yuri thinks. _The Eyrie could be taken only by dragons. And I most definitely am not one_.  
"You know almost everything about me. My life, my punishment, why I’m here."  
Yuri would like to sound angry and annoyed— then maybe Otabek would give him what he wants like the servants at the Rock hurry to do whenever he uses _that_ tone. The truth is he just sounds childish.  
There’s a stoic intake of breath coming from Otabek before he says, "Knife or bow?"  
Yuri sighs. "Bow," he decides, and that concludes the question. 

  
  
  


Many of the boys Yuri grew up with at the Rock— the sons of his grandfather’s courtiers or servants, would make fun of him for not being as good with the sword as it was expected from a highborn lord. And he’s still not very good to this day, lacking the size and mass needed to both swing a sword and make actual damage with it without being dragged down by its weight. With Viktor, Yuri had practiced the knife. But with the master-at-arms of the Rock he had discovered the bow, and what a love worthy of a song had theirs been— Yuri had sharp aim, a firm core, and he had worked and worked to make his arms strong enough to pull the string back. At fifteen, he was satisfied but also constantly striving to improve himself.  
"Always compensate," his grandfather had said when he had presented Yuri with the fine bow he now carried on his back, all complicate designs of golden lions and fine wood. "The sword with the bow, and the draw with your belly." 

At the Wall, Yuri had learned how to aim with snow blinding his eyes, and how to draw and fire with five extra pounds of cape on his shoulders. He had also been pleasantly flattered by the look of surprise and admiration Otabek had given him after Yuri had first hit the bullseye five times in a row. In exchange for a few tips on basic sword moves, Yuri had gained himself an archery student.  
"Otabek, lower your elbow. Are you dancing a jig or something?" Yuri snickers, but Otabek silently complies, moving his shoulder muscles and forming a fine, straight line from elbow to arrow tip.  
Yuri watches as he takes a breath, two, and then releases— the arrow sails through the crisp air of the North and lands inches away from the black spot marking the centre. Yuri is impressed.  
"Not bad," he offers.  
Otabek scrolls his shoulders, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and it’s enough for Yuri— he’s learned that people don’t smile often at the Wall, and that he should cherish those few he gets.  
"Think so? It’s a shame the same can’t be said for you and the sword," and Yuri responds to that by bumping into Otabek with all his weight.  
Admittedly, it’s not much, but Otabek didn’t expect it and so they both stumble. It’s playful, though. Yuri never would have thought that these kind of moments could exist here, at the Seven Kingdoms’ last border— and it’s in moments like these that Yuri feels like being at the Wall is the purest experience of his life. _The cold, the training, the service. Nothing at all like life in a Southron court_.  
"There’s no master in the world who will make me a great swordsman. The Warrior has turned his face from me," Yuri says.  
Otabek moves his head so to look him in the eyes, so dark against Yuri’s shining green ones.  
"You could be a water dancer, though. You have the body for it. I’m sure your grandfather could pay you a Braavosi master—" but Yuri is recoiling from him and his words like he’s been slapped.  
"Nothing from Braavos will ever enter Casterly Rock. Nothing. No one. Ever." 

Yuri’s words are unforgiving like the ice, and unlike him Otabek knows when to step back, even though he’d like to press him, to find out what’s tormenting him so. The reason the lordling will never be a man of the Watch, Otabek thinks, is not only the fact that he was sent here to learn humility and not to say his vows. All of Otabek’s brothers have winter deep into their bones, have had it all their lives— when they come to take the black it just grows. Yuri doesn’t. He’s a summer child from the top of his blonde head to the tips of his archer’s fingers— to Otabek, he’s the embodiment of a world he’s never seen and that he imagines always joyful, sunlit, warm. Seeing Yuri so tormented doesn’t fit the picture, and Otabek wonders. _Turns out I'm not the only one keeping secrets_. 

  
  
  


Scenes of early winter at the Wall— Yuri trailing after the Maester, arms full with messages to send and read, books to fill, accounts to keep. Otabek taking care of the horses, making sure they’re ready and well fed for the ranging mission that the whole of Castle Black knows is coming. There’s something in the worried look the Lord Commander’s face has been having for the past few days that just _screams_ frozen nights beyond the Wall.  
Otabek’s brothers have been placing bets on who will be assigned to it— while ranging missions are always a privilege and a chance to escape the monotony of Night’s Watch life, they’re also not something to be taken lightly. Especially with the cold becoming more and more intense.  
For his part, Otabek isn’t worried, although he secretly placed a bet on his guard duty partner. He just brushes Altin’s coat— the black mare looking at him like she’s already aware of what’s coming— and steals glances at Yuri, currently busy at being the Maester’s scribe. He can see the lordling struggle with the old man’s heavy Skagos accent, and occasionally bursting out with unrequested comments about this noble family or that patch of land that the Maester promptly ignores. Otabek doesn’t say anything. But he looks on. 

  
  
  


Yuri arrives in the mess hall for dinner with fingers frozen and bleeding after having helped the Maester feeding his ravens— vicious creatures. Yuri is pretty sure the Maester knows that those birds are always on the hunt for the next thing to stab with their beaks, which is why he always tasks Yuri with their meals. _When I arrived his own fingers must have thanked all the gods in existence_.  
He also has a growling stomach and desperate need for the warmth of the big fire that’s always lit right where— yes, where Otabek is sitting. When the other man spots him, he waves, and Yuri doesn’t have to be told twice. He slumps down next to Otabek and assaults his bowl of stew with such ferocity he would have scared the Valyrians out of their invasion of the Rhoyne.  
"Still no news of the infamous ranging mission?" Yuri asks, barely looking up from his dinner.  
Otabek shrugs. It’s all silences, with him. All pauses. The trick, Yuri thinks, is reading them— this one, for example, is worried. Otabek is worried. If something seems bad enough to get the Lord Commander into his 'stance of war', as the brothers call the way he walks around Castle Black as if he’s marching onto a battlefield, it should have them all alert and ready.  
Yuri wonders where he would fit in a possible wildling attack, or some other emergency. Would it be enough for grandfather to call him home? _Sure, he’s sent me here to punish me, but he wouldn’t want to lose his only grandson and heir_. As Yuri stuffs his mouth with bread, he fails not to linger on the fact that he would be sad, should he have to leave the Wall so soon.  
At the Rock, no one would treat him in the same way Otabek does, with respect and dignity, as a peer. _Not as a spoiled brat, not as a lord. As Yuri_.  
"It seems there’s news for you, though," Otabek says, elbowing him gently to make Yuri look up.  
And sure enough, Kells, the little boy who also works as the Maester’s attendant— Yuri had learned from Otabek that he was an orphan, taken him from the Watch when they had found him abandoned on the doors of Castle Black— is making his way towards him. 

"Arrived for you a few hours ago, m’lord," Kells says, and then he runs off to where his dinner is still waiting for him, red hair cropped close but still flashing in the torchlight. Yuri barely has time to hope for a few lines from his grandfather when he sees the sigil holding the parchment close. The direwolf sigil wouldn’t be a tragedy— through grandmother, they are cousins with the Lords of Winterfell. _Maybe Yakov wants to gift me with some more of his endless blabber_.  
But the direwolf of Winterfell isn’t alone. Beside it, there’s another sigil. A ship and a broken sword.  
_Braavosi_. 

Yuri’s first instinct is turning around and throwing Viktor’s words into the fire, riveting in the pleasure of watching them burn. _I should. That’s what I should do. Do it_ now _!_  
But he can’t. Yuri misses him, although admitting it to himself is like swallowing wildfire. As long as he doesn’t open the parchment, he can pretend it’s just Viktor writing him from Winterfell with news and gossips from the Seven Kingdom, an art form he was always better at than Yuri will ever be. 

So Yuri picks up the parchment and stuffs it in his sleeve. When he retires for the night, the letter will join the dozens of others who are now lining the bottom of Yuri’s trunk. All signed with the wolf and the ship. All unopened.  
"Don’t ask. Please," Yuri murmurs, because he could feel Otabek’s eyes on him for the whole two minutes it took him to decide what to do with those unwanted, _longed for_ words.  
"When you’re ready. _If_ you are." Otabek answers. Yuri wonders if he’s not just talking about the letters but about his own past as well. 

When he looks back down, the stew is cold. _Like everything. Like the ice_. 


	2. you scream, you scratch, you bite, you prey on my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> « _There’s something wild in the way Yuri looks around him, at the snow bright in the timid sun and the clear air. Despite his blonde hair and green eyes that are nothing but Westernlands born and bred, Otabek could almost believe that Yuri belongs here, at the edge of the world._  
>  "What’s behind them?" _Yuri asks. Otabek lets out a puff of frozen breath before answering_.  
>  "The Lands of Always Winter. Only Wildlings know if something’s there."  
> "The Night’s Watch hasn’t explored them?"  
> "It would mean paying a visit to the place where monsters and nightmares are from. Besides, not all my brothers are First Men. Most of them are actually Andals, like you."  
> "And what is that supposed to mean?"  
> "Your blood runs too hot for a place that’s called the Lands of Always Winter _," Otabek means it as a joke, but he sees a glimmer of defiance in Yuri’s eyes._ »
> 
> in which there's a ranging beyond the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to thank everybody for the overwhelming response to the first chapter. i'm really grateful to anyone who commented and left kudos and read, i didn't expect it for this nerd fantasy of mine!
> 
> as always, all the love in the world to my amazing beta **Maki** and to OMAM's _Winter Sound_. _grazie_ and enjoy!

Even in his earliest memories Otabek has always slept with one eye open— so it’s no surprise that during his years at the Wall his sleep has grown lighter and lighter. The noises of Castle Black, creaks and moans and whispers as if the fortress was an old grumpy warrior, have seeped into his ears, easing him into his dreams and waking him up immediately if something is, _sounds_ , off.  
When a wildling raid had tried hitting Night’s Watch land beyond the Wall, a year after he had taken the black, he had shot awake because the ravens had stopped cawing and had been one of the first to reach his defensive position.  
When Altin had given birth to her first and only foal, the soft hushes of the stableman were the ones that had made him jump out of bed and reach her even before the real labor had begun.  
So today, when the Lord Commander enters his room at the hour of the nightingale, Otabek is waiting for him, pants already laced up and sword ready to be worn.

"Don’t you ever sleep, boy?" The old man asks, making his way towards the small fire that warms the bedchamber. Outside, Otabek can see the sky turning a delicate shade of pink— _like Yuri’s cheeks when the frost bites them too hard_ , he might say if he was one to notice such details. There’s a deadly chill in the bright transparency of the air. _Not a day of snow, then, but a day of ice_.  
"I heard you coming, my Lord. You slammed your door too hard," Otabek offers as an answer, shrugging his shoulders until the black coat hangs off of them just right.  
"Blasted thing. The hinges are coming off any day now. Fifth time this year," he grumbles, and then falls silent.  
Otabek straps his longsword to his back and waits. Silence has always been comfortable to him, even more than words, and there’s no better place to find it than the Wall— _the cold seeps into your mouth if you keep it open too much_ is the first lesson that the Watch’s master-at-arms teaches to new recruits. Otabek has made an art of out it.  
_That is, until Yuri. He screams and rages like a proper Southron lord_ , and Otabek almost wishes his thoughts were condemning, but if there’s one thing he’s good at is being honest with himself. He clicks his tongue and tries to drag his mind away from Yuri’s blonde hair and emerald green eyes. 

The sound seems to startle the Lord Commander, and he stops gazing into the flames like a Red Priest, turning to face Otabek. In the split second after he takes a breath and before he forms his words, Otabek realizes what they’re going to be.  
"I want you on the mission beyond the Wall," and tendrils of frost begin to climb up Otabek’s spine.  
He’s used to them, though, and has almost missed them. It’s been too long since it was only him and Altin riding in the snow of wildling territory. Otabek will lose his money in the bet ring, but his nose is already filled with the strong scent of the Haunted Forest, his eyes trace the shape of the Frostfangs at dawn.  
"By some ungodly reason, you seem to like it there. Doesn’t hurt you’re one of our best rangers, either." The Lord Commander finishes with a smirk that might even be amused.  
"I’ll be glad to serve the Watch, my Lord. What do you require of me?"  
A part of Otabek’s mind is thinking about the extra clothes he’ll need, arrows and daggers, food for Altin and himself. The other is fixing on Yuri and apparently doesn’t want to let go of him, clever fingers gripping a bow much finer than any the Watch will ever see and words dripping the strange harmony of Western accent. _Maybe when I come back he’ll be gone. Called back to his castle and his life, where he can forget all about his days here_.

"I’ve received some, _ah_ — worrying ravens from Eastwatch. I can’t quite put my finger on it, though. More information is needed, and I would like you to provide them for me. A tour of our wildling informers is in order, my boy," the Lord Commander explains, and Otabek’s senses suddenly perk up. _Something’s not right_.  
"What should I ask them about?"  
Otabek keeps his doubts to himself in favor of going straight to the point. If he’s leaving soon, and he suspects he is, he doesn’t want to gallop out of the tunnel that runs under the Wall leaving precious details behind.  
"Tribes stirring. We don’t know why, but it’s clear to see in the reports of other ranging missions and observations. If the wildlings are on the warpath we need to know, and soon," and _shit_.  
A massive attack on the Wall is never something to wish for, but one that might occur during the deep heart of winter could be devastating. That’s when the Watch is hungry, frozen, scarce— it’s not unusual for old brothers or younglings to succumb to the cold. 

The Lord Commander’s words shoot a sharp pang of feat at him, and although Otabek’s first instinct would be to dodge it like an arrow, he can’t— the feeling burrows itself deep into him. He understands the urgency now, and also the need to keep the objectives of the mission silent and private to a selected few.  
"I expect you’ll be away for almost a week. Until you’ve returned and I’ve pondered over whatever it is that you’ll bring me, you are not to talk of this to any of your brothers. As far as the rest of the Watch is concerned, this is just to check on wildling movements and make sure that we won’t have to fight our way through getting firewood for the winter. Understood?"  
Otabek nods. Now there’s a slight inquietude gnawing at his toes, but it’s not enough to make him reluctant to leave— besides, there aren’t many rangers who know the faces and routes to the Watch’s wildling informers. The Lord Commander made a good choice, and Otabek is already half-way out the door when he hears the old man calling him again.

"And, Otabek— take the lordling with you."  
For a second, no one speaks but the wind howling through Castle Black. Otabek is sure he must have heard wrong. _Take Yuri out beyond the Wall? Madness_ , he thinks, furiously, at the warmth that’s spreading in his stomach.  
"My Lord, with all due respect, I don’t think—"  
"It’s not just my decision. I’ve written to his Lord grandfather, asking for his opinion. I _did_ word my letter in a way that suggested how rigorous and taxing a ride beyond the Wall would be," Otabek eyes him meaningfully. "And of course the old lion and I both agreed that it would be perfect for a young noble whose favorite pastime is screaming obscenities at the current occupant of the Iron Throne."  
"He’s not trained," Otabek tries to protest.  
This time, it’s the Lord Commander who gives him a very knowing look.  
"I hear he’s more skilled with the bow than any of the sorry lot we call ' _archers_ ' here. Not bad with a hunting knife either. As for the cold, well— there’s no preparing for that other than bringing two heavy cloaks. Unless you want to be the one telling the Lord of Casterly Rock that you’re going to disobey a very pressing wish of his," in the Lord Commander’s eyes there’s a faint glimmer of amusement, as if he’d like to see Otabek try.  
"Wasn’t the Watch the only institution in the Seven Kingdoms that didn’t take orders from the nobles, my Lord?" Otabek is obviously extremely aware of the fact that the Commander was once himself one of those nobles, and that he’s still arguing only for the sake of sport— the decision is made.  
"That’s why I said ' _wish_ '. Besides, I’d like to remind you that we receive at least a thousand golden dragons a year from the Rock coffers, money that we use to keep ourselves warm, fed and dressed. If the Lord wants his only heir out beyond the Wall, then by the Father he shall have him there. It doesn’t change much for me, doesn’t change much for you, and this closes the question," his tone has lost the playful air of a joke and has turned into the sharp steel of an order. Otabek knows better, and touches a fist to his heart, bowing his head slightly.

When he finally does walk out the door, it’s to walk towards Yuri’s bedchamber. _Oh, he’s not going to like this one bit_.  
  
  
  
As Altin trots steadily through the frozen tunnel that will lead them all outside and beyond the Wall, Otabek decides that Castle Black could consider itself lucky Yuri had taken the news he was to pack his warmest clothes, saddle a horse and head out into wildling territory surprisingly well. _For his standards. I didn’t think he was capable of producing those kind of curses. I wonder if what he spat out at King Jean was also straight out of a Lannisport sailor mouth_.  
Otabek, on the other hand, will be the one who has to deal with Yuri’s quiet rage— and although he isn’t sure the harsh, furious wave surrounding the lordling is caused by the mission, or the raven that arrived carrying yet again another letter from Braavos sealed with Winterfell’s direwolf head, or simply because he had been thrown out of bed even before proper sunrise, Otabek sure hopes Yuri won’t be seized by some sort of killing frenzy that will result in his corpse being dumped somewhere in the Haunted Forest. 

Otabek glances behind him— Yuri had had to leave the fine horse he arrived at the Wall with, since a born and bred Reach stallion wasn’t exactly suited to prodding through knee-high snow, and was now silently riding a much sturdier looking grey mare. The cloak he had worn over his usual one made his shoulders look bulky, and he had already complained that it made it difficult for him to take hold of his bow. Otabek had calmly replied that with an arm dumb from the cold it would have been even more difficult, and Yuri had rewarded him with a look that could have meant anything from amusement to an acute itch for a beheading. Not even the sharing of the mission’s purpose had seemed to shake the lordling from his silence, although Otabek was sure that half the children from Oldtown to Winterfell would be jumping up and down at the chance of going behind wildling lines. _Then again, Yuri is no longer a child. The same way you already weren’t, back at his age_.  
Peaking from his pocket, Otabek can see the missive Yuri had all but ripped out from the raven’s talons and hastily stuffed away. He doesn’t like to admit it, but curiosity is burning him— for the first time in his life he wishes he was more privy to the rumors traveling from mouth to mouth about the Great Houses of their realm. All Otabek knows is that Ser Viktor, heir to Winterfell and legendary tourney jouster, has done _something_ and then has left for Braavos, even if Otabek isn’t sure as to the reasons of it. What is certain is that Viktor’s actions have left his father, Lord Yakov, quite dumbfounded, and his squire, young Yuri from Casterly Rock, even more so. Yuri had arrived to the Wall barely a month after Ser Viktor’s departure, and considering the way he usually growls at the letters from beyond the Narrow Sea, Otabek can guess things aren’t good between the two.  
He’s almost asking it, _what’s in those letters that destroys you so much?_ , when he catches it. A scent of wilderness. The tunnel opens in front of them and drowns them in light, blinding them both for a second. When Otabek blinks, he’s beyond the Wall.

After the clang of the gate closing, the air falls silent. Otabek takes a few moments to gather his bearings and decide on the best track to follow, but when he turns to inform Yuri he finds the younger man’s mouth hanging open and his eyes wide with wonder.  
"Doesn’t make the same impression as from the top of the ice, does it?" Otabek offers, because he too remembers the first time he went ranging.  
The silence, the snow, the trees— all so similar to how they were on their side of the Wall, and at the same time otherworldly different.  
Yuri takes a few more breaths to respond. "I’ve always envied Viktor for traveling far and wide, to the Free Cities and the Summer Isles— now I, too, have left the Seven Kingdoms."  
"Might I point out that a trip to Jhala feels much easier than what we’re about to do?" Otabek is unsure whether to continue, but Seven Hells be damned, it’s not like someone is around to judge him. "If you ask me, I think you’ll get more bragging rights when you return to Casterly Rock. Going deep into wildling land makes for a very good story, believe me."  
Otabek is glad to see Yuri smile. It’s the first smile since the day started— a day that already seems so long, although it’s barely noon.  
"Talking from experience?" The lordling jokes.  
"Very much so," Otabek agrees, and then points to the forest in front of them. "We’re going North, to Whitetree. If we make good pace, we should be there way before sunset with time to spare."  
"Whitetree?"  
"A wildling village. The first person we need to talk to lives there with his family."  
Yuri shrugs— after all, he’s not like he could lead the way. Still, his trust makes Otabek’s shoulders burn with responsibility. As he spurs his mare on, the lordlings adds, "As long as you show me the sights," and gestures West, where mountains are shooting up to embrace the sky.  
  
  
  
"The Frostfangs," Otabek says as they trot. "Follow them North, you’ll find the Thenn. Milkwater river’s up there too," he adds.  
There’s something wild in the way Yuri looks around him, at the snow bright in the timid sun and the clear air. Despite his blonde hair and green eyes that are nothing but Westernlands born and bred, Otabek could almost believe that Yuri belongs here, at the edge of the world.  
"What’s behind them?" Yuri asks. Otabek lets out a puff of frozen breath before answering.  
"The Lands of Always Winter. Only Wildlings know if something’s there."  
"The Night’s Watch hasn’t explored them?"  
"It would mean paying a visit to the place where monsters and nightmares are from. Besides, not all my brothers are First Men. Most of them are actually Andals, like you."  
"And what is that supposed to mean?"  
"Your blood runs too hot for a place that’s called the Lands of Always Winter," Otabek means it as a joke, but he sees a glimmer of defiance in Yuri’s eyes.  
He wonders if the lordling is hatching a daring plan of being the first to chart a map of what lies beyond the Frostfangs. _Wouldn’t that be an enterprise worth of a song?_ Here, as they pass the tall pines that mark the southernmost reaches of the Hidden Forest, Otabek can almost see it— Yuri and him, battling ice spiders and giants, mapping lands of legends and mystery. The impossibility of it all warms his numb fingers. _A song, indeed_.  
  
  
  
Whitetree welcomes them as dusk begins to paint the clouds over the Frostfangs orange. Yuri’s breath catches in his throat and he pulls his mare’s reins to stop her, so that he can take in the view— a giant weirdwood tree sitting in the middle of a dozen houses, its bloody face halfway between a grimace and a cruel smile. Snow covers everything, making Altin’s hooves sound distant, spectral. Yuri feels a tingling at the base of his spine, a calling to some ancient, primal part of him. He can’t decide if it’s telling him to turn the mare and run back to the Wall, or stay and explore this scene that seems to come out of one of the stories grandmother Lilia used to tell when she wanted to scare him for having stolen meat pies from the kitchen again.  
  _You’re Andal_ , Otabek had said, and maybe it’s the Andal part of him that’s struggling to keep from shivering with fear. But grandmother Lilia came from Winterfell. She has the blood of the First Men, and so does Yuri— those few drops are enough to follow Otabek into the barely there streets, to where a man Yuri supposes is the informer is already waiting for them.    
  
"Why do you fly here, raven?"  
The man’s Common is thick with northern accent, but Yuri is more focused on noticing the fact that he’s roughly the size of Casterly Rock’s main gates.  
"To hear your words, Ivar, on behalf of the Lord Commander."  
Otabek answers, and Ivar’s long braided red hair tingles with beads and tiny bones as he grunts something that clearly to Otabek means that _yes, no one’s getting killed tonight_. Yuri has to admit he was a bit worried, although during their ride Otabek has assured him that the wildling allies of the Watch are indeed trustworthy. 

That marks the end of Yuri’s understanding of the conversation. Ivar barely spares a glance at him and then moves on to speak with Otabek in his mother tongue. Yuri honestly isn’t surprised to realize that Otabek is able to match Ivar word for word, just slightly annoyed at his inability to follow what’s being said— especially when Ivar grunts something in Yuri’s general direction and Otabek leans in to whisper that the wildling had just called him a ' _newborn_ '. Apparently it’s the wildling way to use it not only for babes, but for anyone who looks clueless and clearly out of their waters. Yuri isn’t sure he likes it, but on the other hand he’s adamant that he doesn’t want to discuss it with Ivar, who could probably break him in half with two fingers.  
  
  
  
Ivar has made clear that he has no intentions of speaking business with Otabek until the new day, because talks of war and politics must be made in broad daylight— so he simply invites them both into his house, welcoming them around the massive fire warming the entire building and offering them a bowl of rabbit stew. There’s no salt to be had, but Yuri knows, without Otabek telling him, that guest right applies all the same. As they eat, Otabek and Ivar discuss the approaching winter and the presence of venison in the woods, Ivar’s wife Leka feeds a bundle of red hair and tiny fingers to her breast, and the other two children, a boy and a girl no older than eight, seem fascinated by Yuri’s lion ring. They examine it in the firelight and exchange delighted comments about the emeralds the beast’s eyes and the fine craft that details the mane.

"Do you come from the golden castle in the South?"  
Yuri takes a second to realize that Ivar has not only switched to Common, but is also talking to him.  
"Casterly Rock isn’t really made of gold, but yes. That’s my home."  
He answers, as the little girl tries to put the ring on and swirls her arms around in what Yuri assumes is an imitation of a fainting Southron lady. Ivar jokingly elbows Otabek in the ribs.  
"Since when do you ravens take in lions?"  
Yuri realizes Ivar has mistaken him for a recruit, a man of the Watch. After all, Whitetree probably doesn’t see many wandering Westerosi nobles.  
Otabek shakes his head, and discreetly places a hand to where Ivar’s elbow hit him. Yuri’s pretty sure he’ll have a bruise.  
"Yuri is not a brother of the Watch, nor will he be. He was sent to us as a punishment."  
Now Ivar’s eyes are interested.  
"Punishment? What did the little lion do?"  
"Shouted courses at his sovereign," Otabek says, and Ivar bursts out laughing.  
"I misjudged you, then, little lion. You might be skinny as a dead branch but you have guts. The King beyond-the-Wall must have been mighty angry to send you to the black cloaks."  
Ivar goes back to speaking with Otabek, but his last words haunt Yuri. The King beyond-the-Wall… to Ivar, that’s Jean— who is miles and miles away from his reality in the same way that wildling Kings beyond-the-Wall are to Yuri’s. The change of perspective strikes him hard. Sitting under Whitetree’s weirdwood, for the first time Yuri realizes that the world doesn’t end at the borders of the Seven Kingdoms, but actually goes on and on.  
  
  
  
Leka offered them furs to cover themselves with and a corner of the mezzanine to sleep in. The house isn’t really that big, and so the red glow of the fire is still reaching them and lulling them as they take off their boots and settle in for the night.  
Yuri is in the middle of folding his cloaks neatly so that they will act as a pillow when the letter slips out. It lands with the direwolf looking straight up at him, and maybe it’s the fact that this time it was Yuri who moved away instead of passively enduring Viktor’s departure, or that Otabek is staring at him with his dark, intense eyes— Yuri actually picks it up and breaks the sigil. He opens it. Viktor’s handwrite almost makes his fingers shake.

_Dearest Yurio, I wish you would answer some of the letters I send you. But if I know you half as well as I think I do, I suspect you’re not even opening them. It doesn’t matter. I will keep sending them. Keep asking you to give me a chance to explain, and begging you to see that all that has passed is not a slight against you. I hope your stay at the Wall isn’t too harsh— and that you’ll want to share some of your adventures with the Night’s Watch with me. Until we meet again. Viktor._

"Bastard," he mutters, because _of course_ Viktor knows him well. _Of course_ he can predict his every move. _Of course_ he must sound condescending, like _he’s_ the victim instead of Yuri.  
"What does it say?"  
Otabek’s voice snaps him out of his anger once again. Yuri looks up to see him, calm and serious.  
"Rubbish," he spits, as he rips the letter to shreds.  
There’s a second of silence, and then—  
"What happened?"  
By the time the last syllable leaves Otabek’s mouth, Yuri has already accepted the fact that this is the night. The night where he tells. And as he sits down more comfortably, he also realizes that he desperately needs to tell— maybe if he had sooner, he wouldn’t have exploded with King Jean. _Then again, I would never have gone to the Wall. And I wouldn’t tell anyone else but Otabek_. Somewhere in the back of Yuri’s mind, his grandfather is whispering his favorite word. _Fate_.

"Two months ago, the King held a big tourney in King’s Landing to celebrate his first nameday since he took the throne. The Queen had also recently announced that she was pregnant, so he invited everyone and everyone went— all the Great Houses, from Dorne to Winterfell, including Viktor and me. I was squiring with him. And when we arrived in the Crownlands we learnt that not only Westerosi nobility had been invited, but Essosi too. The King has good relationships with the Free Cities, and they had sent representatives to confirm their friendship and good will. So at the Red Fortress we meet _him_ ," Yuri draws a sharp intake of breath. "The son of the Sealord of Braavos. Yuuri."  
"Like you?" Otabek interrupts. Yuri’s eyes shoot daggers.  
"I’m _nothing_ like him. Besides, the pronunciation is different," the longing in Yuri’s voice is masked behind a curtain of anger, but not well enough for Otabek not to hear it.  
"Viktor turned all moon-eyed immediately, started accompanying him everywhere, danced only with him, won the joust so he could offer Yuuri the crown of flowers. And when the celebrations ended and we were about to head back to Winterfell, we find out that he had already left— set sail for Braavos. With Yuuri."  
"That’s when your accident with the King happened?"  
Yuri nods, but his mind is rowing backwards, seeing Viktor’s mouth forming a heart-shaped smile and Yuuri’s swirling blue tunics, his musical accent, the way their shared name sounded so foreign on his lips. The dull ache of betrayal as Yakov told him that Braavos’ ship had left the Blackwater Rush with Viktor on it. The smirk on Jean’s face as he taunted Yuri with a joke that wasn’t even that terrible, but that to him suddenly seemed the worst possible insult. _And all because of Viktor. All because of Yuuri_.  
"So that’s how Viktor ended up in Braavos, and me to the Wall. That’s also why he keeps sending me letters— he thinks it’s his fault." Yuri scoffs.  
"And is it?"  
"Whose _else_? He sneaked away like a thief in the night! Yakov was furious, kept raging about how it was Viktor’s Reach blood that made him soft, and me— he was my teacher and my _friend_ and he left _me_ before even completing my training, and he’s the only one who can give me my spurs! He _took_ Yuuri and just sailed like he has to have _everything_ and think about _nothing_ —"  
"Yuri," Otabek calls him, using his first name, a thing that he rarely does.  
Yuri stops and realizes that with Otabek’s accent it sounds almost as haunting as when Yuuri pronounced it. _Maybe more_.  
"You’re shouting. I’ve seen Ivar shaken awake once and it wasn’t a pretty sight, nor an experience I’d like to relive."

"Whatever. It’s useless to speak about it— it is what it is."  
Yuri falls down on his bundle of cloaks and turns away from Otabek, putting a very firm end to the conversation.  
And if Yuri falls asleep quickly, tired by the day’s ride and emotions, Otabek struggles to close his eyes— a part of him feels pride in the way Yuri decided to open up to him, and ponders if he shouldn’t do the same in return. But another is being eaten alive, flesh raw and red at the thought of Yuri’s pain, like a lover betrayed, a lover abandoned. _What could a raven ever offer to rival a wolf?_


	3. and i run from wolves, tearing into me without teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> « _Braavos’ morning wind feels like a summer kiss, sweet-smelling from the many exotic flowers that grow in the Sealord’s gardens and the Narrow Sea stretching wide on the horizon. It’s nothing at all like King’s Landing, stinking and cacophonic— Braavos wakes up like a sleepy cat, stretching its limbs into the sun before truly beginning the day. It might feel like an echo of Oldtown, clean-cut stones and a busy port, but the truth is the bastard daughter of Valyria has no equals in the world, not even among the other Free Cities. It’s wonder after wonder, and all Viktor wishes is to be able to spend the rest of life exploring them all. Of course, the greatest wonder Braavos has to offer is still sleeping in the bed behind him._ »
> 
> in which we go on the other shore of the Narrow Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you thank you thank you to everyone who read and commented and bookmarked and kudo'ed (???). this chapter has some sentences in High Valyrian, and although I'm not exactly sure they're correct since I'm not _Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen the blood of Old Valyria and Valyrian is my mother tongue_ , you can find the translations at the end of the chapter.
> 
> all my love to my beta **Maki** and OMAM's _Wolves Without Teeth_. enjoy!

Braavos’ morning wind feels like a summer kiss, sweet-smelling from the many exotic flowers that grow in the Sealord’s gardens and the Narrow Sea stretching wide on the horizon. It’s nothing at all like King’s Landing, stinking and cacophonic— Braavos wakes up like a sleepy cat, stretching its limbs into the sun before truly beginning the day. It might feel like an echo of Oldtown, clean-cut stones and a busy port, but the truth is the bastard daughter of Valyria has no equals in the world, not even among the other Free Cities. It’s wonder after wonder, and all Viktor wishes is to be able to spend the rest of life exploring them all.

Of course, the greatest wonder Braavos has to offer is still sleeping in the bed behind him, and when Viktor turns his back on the balcony to look back inside the cream-colored room the sight of Yuuri’s black hair and the expanse of his back stir both Viktor’s heart and his belly. In a few quick strides Viktor reaches the bed that he has just left, unable to resist the call of Yuuri’s soft skin— _soft, soft like the mattress and Braavosi clothes and this city’s accent, soft like nothing ever was in Winterfell_. He balances himself on his knee and descends on Yuuri’s neck, a kiss and a bite repeating themselves to infinity. Yuuri’s breath changes under Viktor’s lips and he rolls over, so that he finds himself under Viktor’s body. He’s awake.  
" _Sȳz tubis, ñuha jorrāelagon_ ," Yuuri murmurs, eyes still closed but hands already tangling themselves in Viktor’s hair.  
His High Valyrian has the liquid cadence of Braavos, and to Viktor’s ears it sounds just like the wind rustling the leaves of Winterfell’s heart tree. _Heavenly_.  
"My love," he echoes in Common, because he really doesn’t want to butcher a language as beautiful as High Valyrian with his poor skills and terrible pronunciation.  
Yuuri doesn’t seem to mind, though— he opens his eyes and stares up at Viktor, silent for a while as he realizes that yes, he’s indeed _here_ , in Braavos, in his bed. Yuuri’s been doing it every day since they left King’s Landing together, and Viktor doesn’t know what good he did in his life to be so blessed by the gods. 

There’s desperate adoration in the kiss Viktor lowers himself to plant on Yuuri’s lips, and the same feeling is returned when Yuuri opens his mouth in response, caging Viktor in his arms and legs and holding him impossibly close. Yuuri gives a wicked roll of his hips that has Viktor moaning in the other man’s mouth, and his plans for the morning fly out the window. When he has him like this, tender and warm and _needy_ under him, Viktor sometimes finds it difficult to overlap the image of Yuuri, the man he loves, with that of Yuuri, the son of the Sealord, foreign and mysterious in the halls of the Red Keep. _And even less so with that of the figure in blue that had haunted his dreams ever since last year’s celebrations for the Unmasking…_  
"I can hear you thinking, Viktor," Yuuri says, breathless.  
There’s a bit of reproach in his eyes, and then he turns mischievous, a smirk forming at the corner of his mouth. A wolf howls in Viktor’s belly.  
"Whatever it is, _keligon ziry sir_." He orders.  
His Common isn’t as good as he wishes it was, and he often switches mid-sentence. Viktor only finds that more endearing— although not as much as the strong grip of Yuuri’s hands on his shoulders as he flips them over. Viktor’s back hits the bed and Yuuri’s assault is welcomed, _wanted_ , despite all the hard years of training and jousting Viktor has gone through. It’s a different kind of instinct, this one. Viktor’s cousin Christophe calls it the _lover’s_ , and he stands by the fact that it can be found only in the South of Westeros.  
"You’re lucky you have also our Highgarden blood, Viktor, or you’d be as frozen as a Shivering Sea trout!"  
Viktor only half agrees. _After all_ , he thinks as Yuuri digs his fingers in the flesh behind Viktor’s knee and yanks it up, _snow covers Winterfell, yes, but there are hot rivers running underneath it_.

 

Sweat tickles down Viktor’s back as he feints, pivots and then attacks. Makkachin howls, following and matching his steps. Viktor’s longsword sings through the air, following his momentum, and then embeds itself deep into the neck of a poor innocent straw dummy, one of the many that were helpfully set up for him by the Sealord’s attendants in one of the palace’s gardens. Admittedly, actual living and breathing opponents would be better, but First Sword Minako can’t always order her men to go and get beaten down by Viktor— they actually have things to do, patrols and whatnot, and most of them are uneasy around the direwolf that follows Viktor like a shadow, and that growls low in its throat when it’s time for a fight. Asking Yuuri is out of the question as well— he’s an incredible water dancer, but every time he and Viktor spar they somehow end up kissing against a wall like two lovestruck youths. And Viktor really _wants_ to train.  
"Constant practice, boy," he hears his Lord father say.  
_For this at least, I can listen to his advice_.  
Truth be told, Viktor would do almost anything right now for a nice tourney. Yes, he was trained in the art of the sword like any proper son of a Great House, but his heart was always in the joust— the thundering of his war horse’s hooves, the weight of the lance, the blinding second before the impact. Cutting dummies in half can only get him so far, but Braavos doesn’t have a long tradition of tourneys, not the space to organize one, not the knights to ride in it. _Which is why they come to ours. Like Yuuri came to the King’s nameday_.

Another jab of Viktor’s sword accompanies his mind as it slips back to the moment Yuuri entered the Great Hall of the Red Keep with the delegation from the Free Cities— silent, reserved, and all Viktor could see. A par against an invisible enemy weapon and Viktor is back on the sand of the tourney grounds outside of King’s Landing, throwing his cousin Christophe off the saddle and winning. A sidestep, and King Leroy is handing him a crown of blue roses. A slash against a dummy’s belly and the crown is in a blushing Yuuri’s hands, who smiles and whispers above the murmurs of the crowd, " _Kirimvose_ , ser Viktor".  
The way his accent caresses the six letters of his name is enough to have Viktor grin like an idiot as he trots back to the competitors' tents to have Yuri remove his armor and Makkachin lick his face to celebrate his victory. He remembers the short, brisk movements of his squire— back than he didn’t see the anger underneath them. _I should have been more considerate, maybe_.

"I swear I’ll never understand how you can jump like that immediately after lunch."  
Viktor laughs as he hears Yuuri’s voice, his dark thoughts brushed away by the sheer light that is the Sealord’s son. He moves to sheathe his sword, because after twenty-and-eight years he’s a pretty fine connoisseur of his own person and knows that he won’t pay attention to proper form and foot stances now— not until he has spirited Yuuri away to a private room. _Possibly theirs_.  
"How can you go hacking arms and legs off after the pork bowl we just ate? Doesn’t it jiggle in your belly?" Yuuri is still puzzled, even as he opens his arms to welcome an enthusiastic Makkachin.  
The direwolf measures up to Yuuri’s waist, and whenever the Braavosi is around turns into a playful puppy. _In love, just like me_. Viktor hangs his sword at his belt and reaches Yuuri, placing a kiss on his forehead.  
"Westerosi, my love. Always ready to fight, especially after a meal— since it seems like all we do is eating," and there’s a glint of malice in Yuuri’s eyes, as if he perfectly understands what is it that Viktor _eats_ , and it’s not Braavosi pork bowls.  
Viktor wants to sweep him off his feet for that look alone, but then it disappears— Yuuri turns serious. _Business serious_ , like when he discusses trades and charts sea routes with his father and his councilmen.  
"Minami has news for us. He says they might interest you as well."  
Viktor dissimulates a coil of worry under the serene smile he has mastered in all his years of mingling with and _being_ Seven Kingdoms high nobility. Makkachin sniffs it, though, and immediately sits down, ready to spring at Viktor’s slightest movement.  
"Then lead the way. If there’s one thing I learned from King Jean and his father before him, is that you never keep a spy waiting."

 

As they navigate the warm corridors of the Sealord’s palace, Makkachin trotting up ahead of them, Viktor’s eyes dart to Yuuri. So Essosi in the way he moves and talks, dresses and behaves himself— and yet there’s something about how his public image is different from the person he actually _is_ that reminds Viktor of the finest players of the game, back home.  
" _Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent underneath_." Princess Sara of Dorne would say.  
A lesson that Viktor has learned but can’t perform at its best, because no one expects him to be innocent— they look at him and see a wolf with ice-cold eyes, a tourney champion, the master of a legendary wood beast, the future Lord of Winterfell. With Yuuri, it’s a complete different story. Viktor remembers how his fellow nobles had assessed him when he arrived for the tourney— a son with no secure chances of inheriting, reserved and not particularly dazzling. _Not a threat_. And yet Viktor has witnessed Yuuri resolve commercial conflicts between the merchants of Braavos, accompany his father in his dealings with the Iron Bank, sail fearlessly up and down the Narrow Sea. Most of all, he has seen how he handles the Sealord’s huge network of spies, all of whom answer directly to him— precise, just, deadly. Viktor has a feeling Sara would really like Yuuri, which is why he’ll never bring him any further South than Storm’s End. He has to suppress a laugh.  
Yuuri turns and looks at him expectantly, and Viktor is about to explain the joke to him when they both catch sight of Minami’s distinctive red lock of hair. Viktor was of the belief spies were supposed to blend in with the crowds, but Minami, despite his appearance and his young age of seven-and-ten, is the best spy the Sealord has in his service. And from the look in his eyes and the way he doesn’t shy away even from Makkachin sniffling at his ankles, he seems like he holds something really important. _Alright then. Let’s hear_.

 

"You can’t be right."  
The enormity of what Minami just reported shocked Yuuri’s voice into a soft, hushed tone. He grips the armrests of his chair tight, nails biting into the polished wood, and raises his eyes to Viktor. Viktor who turned to the window facing the Sea, one hand resting on Makkachin’s brown fur, when Minami had opened his mouth and is still looking, as if the line of the horizon beyond which there’s his homeland could offer him some answers.  
"My lord, I’m afraid I am. The clues all point there, and our spies aren’t the only ones reporting it. Rumors are spreading from Westeros to everywhere, although of course only to the best informed networks."  
Minami looks much older than he actually is, sitting there in Yuuri’s private office, talking about a conspiracy.  
"It’s madness!" Yuuri exclaims, his mind already working to establish the right time to tell his father, the place Braavos will occupy, how the other Free Cities will act. "They came out of a civil war what, two decades ago?"  
Try as he might, Yuuri will never really understand the Seven Kingdoms.  
"It’s Westeros." Viktor declares.  
When he turns around, Yuuri sees Viktor the Wolf, Winterfell’s son. The man Yuuri has so desperately fallen in love with, who kisses him awake and asleep and recites ballads with a terrible singing voice is still there, but there’s a sense of battlefield around him now as he covers the distance between the window and the table and then locks eyes with Minami.  
"It’s the way we are."   
Viktor’s voice has the killing quietness of snow, of a pack stalking its prey knowing that sooner or later they’ll have their catch. He takes just a second to mourn the tranquillity of his days in Braavos, the slow afternoons with Yuuri, the runs through the canals with Makkachin, and then speaks.  
"Who moves against the Iron Throne?"  
"That’s hard to tell, my lord. The names of the conspirers are kept extremely well guarded. From what I understand, they are chosen very carefully and very slowly." Minami explains.  
"So it’s been going on for a while, if it’s now grown big enough for us to spot," Yuuri muses, more to himself than anyone else.  
The spy nods.  
"Who helped you gather all this information, Minami?"  
"Highgarden, my lord. We have always had a very good partnership with Lord Christophe’s network of spies, and it proved useful this time as well."  
"Thank the gods," Viktor sighs, and a weight lifts off of his shoulders.  
He never should have doubted his cousin, but he knows how the Iron Throne can drive people mad, spark in them a desire for power so strong they forget all good reason.  
"I’ll write him. We have a code that we’ve always used, he’ll provide us with more insights."  
As Viktor speaks, Minami takes out a small pad and scribbles notes on it, in weird characters that surely make a lot of sense to him but none to the rest of the world.

"I have to inform my father of this. It’s never good for our trades when the Seven Kingdoms decide to butcher each other," Yuuri says.  
"Although I’m sure it’s worse on the other side of the Narrow Sea."  
 "We can prevent it," Viktor argues.  
"Attacking the Iron Throne is considerably harder if Winterfell and Highgarden stand behind it, for once."  
"I don’t doubt it, _ñuha jorrāelagon_ ," Yuuri’s voice turns a tone softer.  
"But we still have to take measures. You have your land to think about just as I have mine."  
There’s a moment of silence in which a look passes between Viktor and Yuuri— a moment where they ponder their differences, their priorities. But then Viktor smiles. He takes Yuuri’s hand and kisses it in understanding. _Whatever those priorities are, we are one. As long as that’s decided, we’ll work around everything else_.

 

If Braavos wakes up like a cat, then it goes to sleep like a green boy on his first night of freedom. Sundown only means that more candles find their way on windowsills and the whole city turns into a starlit sky mirroring the one above, roamed by night-time adventurers. It fascinates Viktor, used to the early dark of Winterfell and the silent watch of the golden cloaks in King’s Landing, so much that he has spent his first week exploring the canals with the wonder of a child, an amused Yuuri behind him explaining the workings of his city. This evening, though, is different.  
Yuuri is sitting at the small writing desk of their bedchamber, muttering in High Valyrian as he writes what must be an extremely lengthy letter, and behind him, on the bed itself, Viktor is leaning on an exquisitely polished wooden plate to pen his own messages, slips and slips of paper that will probably require an army of ravens to be dispatched. The sound of scribbling quills fills the room, accompanied by the faintest snoring coming from Makkachin, asleep outside their door.

" _Nyke umbagon syt aōha udligon, ñuha raqiros. Ēva bona tubis_." Yuuri says.  
He dries the letter with ash and then folds it, pressing his ring into warm wax to apply the Titan sigil of Braavos.  
"Who is it for?" Viktor asks, without lifting his eyes from his work.  
Yuuri turns, taking in how Viktor’s face is shadowed by his fair hair and his skin is kissed by candlelight through his open tunic. Desire stirs him, but he tries to shrug it away. _We’re in a serious situation. Take a hold of yourself_.  
He still rises and walks to the bed, folding his legs beneath him to sit down.  
"My friend Phichit," he answers.  
"The Pentoshi?" Viktor has yet to meet him, but Yuuri often speaks about him.  
"His family is one of the most prominent, among the magisters. My father wrote to the Prince, as it is right, but we figured we should inform the true rulers of the city as well," there’s a smirk there, an inside joke about Essosi politics that Viktor only half understands but that still draws a laugh from him.  
"Who are you writing to?"  
"Who am I _not_ writing to, would be more accurate," Viktor shakes his head as he signs his last message. His fingers are stained with ink.  
"Three ravens going North to Winterfell— one for father, one for Mila, and one for cousin Georgi. One to Christophe in Highgarden, one to Sara, and to Seung-gil at the Eyrie. If someone can uncover this plot, it’s them."  
"Do you trust them?" Yuuri seems dubious, and Viktor reaches out to caress his cheek.  
"You mean, do I trust my sister and my cousins?"  
"Well, I _hope_ you do, or your family is even more complicated than it seems," they both laugh, and Viktor can’t resist the urge to lean in and place a quick kiss on Yuuri’s lips.  
"But what about the Princess of Dorne and the Lord of the Vale?"  
"Seung-gil is righteous, and, most importantly, likes being left alone, so I’m rather positive a conspiracy doesn’t really figure in his favorite activities. As for Sara, well— she became Princess after a coup against her father to which she and her twin barely survived. She wouldn’t do the same to the King. Not to mention, it would create a massive obstruction in her and Mila’s relationship."  
Viktor’s certainty is _his_ inside joke, and Yuuri can only agree as he helps him fold the messages.

"Do you have one for the Wall?"  
Viktor has debated wether to send one to Yuri. Despite all his attempts at being politically ignorant, Yuri is actually brilliant and insightful, a product of the castle and the system he grew up in as much as Viktor is. His advice would be helpful, but Viktor can’t risk it— not when he’s not even certain Yuri’s receiving the letters he sends him.  
"I wasn’t planning on one. Why?"  
"Well, Minami had something else to add— he found me this afternoon after my meeting with father," Yuuri explains, as Viktor gets up and puts his letters and his ink on the writing desk.  
He returns to the bed and opens his arms for Yuuri to settle into.  
"How well do you know the men of the Watch?"  
"I’ve met the Lord Commander and the First Ranger a couple of times, but other than that not much. It’s my father the one who holds contacts with Castle Black. Yuuri, where are you going with this? What exactly did Minami tell you?"  
"There’s mention of a brother of the Watch in some of his reports. Intercepted messages talk of him as if he has something to do with this plot, as a conspirator—"  
 "That seems unlikely."  
 "Or as a victim. But it’s all clouded in mist, like the dynamics of the conspiracy, its members, its plans. Minami is back to work, and I’m sure Phichit will put his own spies on this, so I think that all we can do for now is wait. But since Yuri is at the Wall, maybe he could help."  
Viktor ponders. There’s _something_ nagging him at the back of his mind, something he _should_ remember but seems to escape him. So he agrees.  
"I’ll write another message for Yuri tomorrow morning, then. This one he might actually _open_." 

Yuuri isn’t finished. Viktor can’t see his face fully, but would bet his longsword that there’s a familiar crease forming between his eyebrows, one that usually leads to—   
"Do you ever think about what happened?"  
There it is. Viktor tightens his grip on Yuuri’s waist and sinks further into the bed, ready to steady Yuuri against his own doubts. _And myself too_.  
"You’ll have to be more specific."  
The look that Yuuri turns to shoot at Viktor is _not_ amused.  
"With Yuri. He must hate me now."  
"It seems more like he hates _me_." Viktor corrects him.  
"Oh, please. He was clearly quite enamored with you, and enter me, a foreigner who whisks you away like some silly song."  
The thought of having caused Yuri pain genuinely concerns Yuuri, and Viktor brushes the other man’s forehead, his heart clenching with how _kind_ Yuuri is and his mouth twisting with how funny it is that he _still_ hasn’t understood.  
"I’d like to point out that it was _me_ who whisked you away."  
"We were on _my_ ship, Viktor."  
"Details. And Yuuri, my love— it wasn’t _me_ Yuri was enamored with. Trust me. Not at all."  
It takes a couple of breaths for Yuuri to put it together.  
"You shouldn’t joke about something like that."  
"And I’m not. Yuuri, who wouldn’t be enamored with you? Who wouldn’t be in _love_ with you, given the chance?" 

Viktor buries his mouth in Yuuri’s neck, plunging deep into an ocean that threatens to pull him under.  
"But I’m the only one in the world who knows your love, Yuuri, and I can live with being hated for it."  
When Yuuri turns around to hold Viktor’s neck, searching his mouth to kiss, the ocean swallows them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • _Sȳz tubis, ñuha jorrāelagon_ = "Good morning, my love"  
>  • _Keligon ziry sir_ = "Stop it right now"  
> • _Kirimvose_ = "Thank you"  
>  • _Nyke umbagon syt aōha udligon, ñuha raqiros. Ēva bona tubis_ = "I wait for your answer, my friend. Until that day"


	4. i live a life of letting go until a starlit night, i wrap myself in thin sheets of ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> « _They had been marching well into the day, always North. Otabek had said the second person they needed to meet would be found at Craster’s Keep, a place with a dark history that he hadn’t wanted to disclose to Yuri._ Not that he has disclosed anything else. What Ivar told him, what’s really going on, why he hugged me when we were sleeping—  
>  _Yuri frustratingly dug his heels into the mare’s side, who whinnied her outrage and bucked a little. That got Otabek’s attention, who looked up from where he was intently staring at Altin’s saddle and met Yuri’s eyes._  
>  "You didn’t ask what I learned from Ivar," he says, after a while.  
> It might be both an accusation and a question.  
> "Well, you didn’t seem in the mood for talking," Yuri replies, adjusting his coat on his shoulders.  
> "I’m never in the mood for talking. You should have just asked." »

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're almost halfway through the story, which means that i really need to get over the block i'm having over chapter eight _yay send lots and lots of help_. i thank you all for reading, send kisses to **Maki** and OMAM's _Backyard_ , and hope you enjoy this update!

While Yuri definitely would pick mulled wine as a warming drink any day of his life, he’s more than willing to admit that the strange mixture of scorching hot water and herbs Leka handed him to accompany his breakfast of eggs is quite tasty. He wouldn’t be able to recognize the ingredients, but he’s pleased with how the wooden cup feels like a small fire in his hands, irradiating heat from the tips of his fingers to the rest of his body.  
Yuri takes his time feeling each little wave of warmth, how it reverberates in his bones— the night just passed was his coldest one yet, kept frozen by the snow outside and the restless memories that his talk with Otabek had awoken. " _It’s the blackest part of night the one you have to fear, Yuratchka. The hour of the wolf. But beyond, there’s sunlight_ ," grandfather Nikolai likes to say, while grandmother Lilia grins a wolfish grin that Yuri has learned to associate with all of Winterfell’s children. Today, sunlight found him curled up against Otabek’s side, one of his arms heavy on Yuri’s belly, who vaguely remembered drifting closer to him in his restless sleep. Otabek hadn’t even opened his eyes when he had yanked Yuri and pulled him in. _The hour of the wolf brought me protection this time, deda_. Yuri hides his eyes in his cup, and tries to act as if _that_ is the cause of the red spreading on his cheeks.

Not that anyone’s paying attention to him— Otabek is in deep talk with Ivar, who didn’t even bother with making Yuri feel included and is speaking in the harsh sounds of the Northern tongue. Yuri managed to catch only two words, a sort of greeting that Ivar offered Otabek before sitting down with him. _I wonder what 'svartur bjor' means_. Not for the first time since his arrival at the Wall, Yuri wishes he had paid more attentions to his maester’s lessons, although he doubts he would have found a wildling to Common phrasebook at the Rock’s library.  
And not for the first time since his arrival at Ivar’s house, Yuri wishes he could fling himself miles away from any kind of human under the age of ten. Ivar’s children, barely awake but delighted that their strange visitors still haven’t left, assault him in a whirlwind of red hair and grabby hands. Yuri is saved by the intervention of their mother, who sits them both down and hands them bowls of what looks like milk.

"Kissed by fire. Like fire, they never stop," Leka sighs, as she kneels next to Yuri and begins to gently rock her youngest son in her arms.  
The babe doesn’t cry and keeps his eyes wide open, a fistful of his mother’s dark locks in his hand as he takes in the world around him. Yuri barely avoids another fist ready to plough through his own blonde hair.  
"You do not care for children much, right?" She asks, and Yuri shrugs.  
"I was the youngest one at Casterly Rock, growing up. I never had to deal with them," it’s not much of an answer, but Leka nods in understanding.  
"Little lion, no one to care for and cared for by all," she says, had to Yuri and half to her baby, in a sing-song voice.  
"I suppose," Yuri agrees, although he doesn’t think his childhood was so lonely as it sounded in Leka’s mouth.  
_Then again, caring for deda and babushka is not the same as caring for a friend my age_. Gods knew Viktor hadn’t proved one.  
"Do you have them?" Leka asks.  
It takes a second or two for Yuri to realize that now her eyes are shining with curiosity.  
"What?"  
"Lions. In your Rock."  
"We used to. But that was a long time ago," Yuri explains.  
In the tunnels under Casterly Rock he once found golden cages, fine collars, forgotten paintings of his ancestors with hands calmly resting on the beasts.  
"I would like to see one," Leka muses.  
Yuri wonders if she means a lion, _because in that case he agrees with her wholeheartedly_ , or a Southron castle. He doesn’t have the heart to ask her, though, and waits for her to speak again.  
"We only have wolves here. Ravens, both with wings and capes. Sometimes a _bjor_ like Otabek."  
Yuri perks up. That word again.  
"What did you just call him?"  
" _Bjor_. All black bothers are ravens, some of them are more. Otabek is _bjor_. You call him— barn? Bar?"  
Leka struggles with finding the right word in Common, but Yuri has it figured out. _What else could live in these woods?_  
"A bear?" And the Free Woman nods. "You call Otabek a bear?"  
" _Svartur bjor_. Black like his clothes."

Leka’s attention shifts to her child, who has started whining softly. She rises and paces back and forth around the hearth, rocking him into calm. To her, what she just said about Otabek is of little importance— just a way to call a brother of the Night’s Watch. _Ravens, bears, they’re all black the same_. To Yuri, it feels like a key slipping into a lock— an old lock, rusty and stubborn. For all he tries, digging up old lessons with his maester, fragments of conversations he picked up from his grandfather and his advisors, he can’t remember why it’s important. Yuri knows it is, though. The key fits, but it’s stuck.

 

 _I called for a knight but you’re a bear, a bear! a bear! all black and brown and covered with hair_ , and Yuri would really appreciate someone bashing his skull in right now. That damn song— a song he shouldn’t even _know_ according to grandmother Lilia, and that he had obviously rushed to learn by heart, has been stuck in his head since they left Ivar’s house, and Whitetree. The children had actually sniffled when Yuri had mounted on his mare, and Leka had made him promise to come again. "Bring a lion’s tooth for us," she had called. Yuri had almost smiled.

Now they had been marching well into the day, always North. Otabek had said the second person they needed to meet would be found at Craster’s Keep, a place with a dark history that he hadn’t wanted to disclose to Yuri. _Not that he has disclosed anything else. What Ivar told him, what’s really going on, why he hugged me when we were sleeping—_  
Yuri frustratingly dug his heels into the mare’s side, who whinnied her outrage and bucked a little. That got Otabek’s attention, who looked up from where he was intently staring at Altin’s saddle and met Yuri’s eyes.

"You didn’t ask what I learned from Ivar," he says, after a while.  
It might be both an accusation and a question.  
"Well, you didn’t seem in the mood for talking," Yuri replies, adjusting his coat on his shoulders.  
"I’m never in the mood for talking. You should have just asked," and that’s so much like Otabek that Yuri wants to— he doesn’t know. _Throw snow at him, throw himself at him_.  
"Then I’m asking now. What did he tell you?"  
Yuri _is_ interested. If he has to drag his frozen feet far and wide beyond the Wall, at least he’d like to know why. Both Ivar and Otabek seemed pretty concerned that morning.  
"Ivar confirmed the Lord Commander’s suspicions," Otabek declares.  
Yuri hopes he doesn’t plan to leave it at that, and motions for him to go on.  
"When he ordered this mission to me, the Commander said there was something worrying in the reports coming from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. He didn’t expand on that ' _something_ ', but Ivar gave me a decent enough idea. It seems like wildling clans are stirring, as if they’re preparing an attack."  
"On the Wall? Isn’t something that would require a lot of manpower?"  
Yuri had only ever heard of Kings-beyond-the-Wall leading such assaults.  
"If they planned to invade us, for sure. But Ivar is of the opinion it’s all more of a distraction. A way of keeping the Watch’s eyes North," Otabek argues.  
A flash hits Yuri.  
"Instead of South, you mean?"  
The tongue of fear that licks at his heart is different from the one he felt about following Otabek in his mission— this one is familiar. And it’s not primal at all, but rather the same he knows people feel when they stare at the mighty keeps of the Great Houses and hear the King rule from the Iron Throne. _Politics_.  
"It’s what I hope Jorja will be able to tell us. She usually travels further than Ivar, she may have heard more," Otabek concludes.  
He turns away from Yuri and looks ahead of him, to where Craster’s Keep lies, as if the pines and the snow hold the answers he’s searching for.

 _He said I should just ask, right?_  
"Leka said the Free Folk call you black bear," and Yuri tries to make his voice sound casual, although in reality he’s listening for any kind of clues or hints that will help him turn the key.  
Otabek gives a half-laugh, shaking the snow off his shoulders with his movement.  
"They’ve always done that, ever since my first ranging mission. Because of the uniform."  
"The black, yes. But why bear? I always thought Watchmen were ravens," Yuri is stomping through his questions, instead of threading lightly like he always does when he tries to inquire about Otabek’s past life.  
A shadow passes on Otabek’s face, but he doesn’t close up like a castle gate.  
"I have no idea. Might be because of how I stand, with all the winter coats on, how they make me look bigger," he ponders, and then goes back to his beloved silence as he spurs Altin on for a little gallop.  
But the word stand rings in Yuri’s ears, and suddenly the key is turning, just a little.

_"The nerve of him!" Grandmother Lilia is angry, Yuri can tell. He knows that stern voice well— they’re the same as when she finds out he skipped his lessons to wander around the Rock, or he pushed one of the blacksmith’s boys in the main yard. So Yuri tries to shrink himself as much as a ten-and-one-year-old boy can, keeping quiet and still behind the thick embroided curtain. After all, grandmother Lilia and grandfather Nikolai are just passing through the hall, clearly headed for grandfather’s solarium. They won’t be long._  
"Lilia, you’re still talking about our King," grandfather Nikolai tries to calm her, but Grandmother Lilia won’t hear of it. Yuri wonders if something happened during their stay at King’s Landing to celebrate Prince Jean’s six-and-tenth nameday. Something else other than Yuri’s discovery of how little he likes Prince Jean, that is.  
"Bringing that boy into court, parading him like it was a village fair! That Bear Island mother of his should have kept better guard on him, instead of handing him away like an unwanted sea catch—" Grandmother Lilia’s voice fades as she and grandfather begin to climb the stairs leading to the solarium. When Yuri is sure that they’re gone, he slips out of his hiding place and runs in the opposite direction, eager to continue his exploration of Casterly Rock’s caves. 

 

Craster’s Keep is indeed a dark, gloomy place that Yuri would prefer not having to spend the night at. Of course he would also choose a roof over his head rather than sleeping in a makeshift camp under the trees of the Haunted Forest, so he’ll make do. At least Jorja, the Watch’s informer, is as sunny as she can be in this place of frost— in the two hours since they arrived, she has teased, complimented, joked and laughed until the crackling of her voice rivaled the one of the fire Otabek has built. Sitting around it, Jorja’s mop of blonde hair seems even wilder, filled with reds and embers. Her voice is low and has a strange cadence to it, but her words are in Common, and like Otabek, Yuri isn’t missing any.

"Ivar was right, _svartur bjor_. Folks are marching down the Milkwater and the Antler. And they do not look friendly," Jorja says.  
Otabek’s brow furrows even more than usual.  
"Why? Are giants wrecking havoc again? Is there something _worse_?"  
His voice drops to a whisper, and Jorja gives a quick look around the room, as if making sure that the Keep is safe. Still, she shakes her head.  
"Nothing has come from Always Winter to haunt us, no. The clans have no reason to move. That’s why I think someone is making them," Jorja dives a hand into one of her many fur satchels and extracts something, a small package, that she throws at Otabek.  
He catches it without hesitation and looks into it. His head shots back up, surprised.  
"Dry meat?"  
"Aye. A chief offered it to me when I passed his columns of warriors coming down Skirling Pass," and Jorja speaks slowly, carefully selecting her words before staring at Otabek and waiting for him to piece them all together.  
" _Offered_? Meaning that they have it to spare? This close to winter?"  
"There’s a steady flow of supplies arriving to the most warlike clans. Meat and food and weapons and clothes. Sailing up the Gorge from the Bay of Ice, all the way up until the ice on the river can’t be broken. But trust me, it’s a long way. There are many clans on the road even before the Thenns," Jorja takes her meat back and bites into a piece, chewing it as she gestures for Yuri and Otabek to share some.  
Yuri does, but Otabek has turned into a statue.  
"The Shadow Tower guards the Gorge," he argues.  
Jorja looks at him sideways.  
"The way I’m told, the Shadow Tower is the one letting the barges pass."

The answer to her sentence is a shocked silence that deafens the room. Otabek bangs a fist on his knee before exclaiming, "The Night’s Watch is not corrupt."  
"Seemed to me anyone can be, as long as the pay’s good. Of course we don’t need money here, but more food for the winter is as nice an offer as any."  
"Then who’s paying? Do you know?"  
Otabek’s hands are trembling. It’s a barely there movement, but Yuri notices. _What sound do your certainties make as they crash down around you?_  
Jorja doesn’t answer, but she turns her head. Now she’s looking at Yuri, at the hand still holding the meat. On Yuri’s ring finger, a lion roars.  
"Not my grandfather," Yuri snaps, defiantly.  
Whatever this snakes’ nest they have uncovered is, Yuri’s adamant that the Lord of Casterly Rock has nothing to do with it.  
"That I agree. But still, it’s _your_ kind," Jorja explains.  
Otabek’s breath catches.  
"Southron lords."  
"Exactly."

 

Yuri watches Jorja gallop away on her horse. "My wife waits for me in Hardhome. It’s a long journey, and my rounds this side of the Haunted Forest are done," she explained. Yuri sits on the threshold of Craster’s Keep, working furiously to heave his mind out of the dumbness it has fallen into. _Southron lords are paying wildlings. To attack the Night’s Watch. To keep them distracted. From what? From what?_ His thoughts drip honey and pine sap, moving slow and unhelpful. Otabek is none the wiser over Seven Kingdoms politics— immediately after Jorja had finished her report he had asked Yuri which lords might be doing this, and Yuri hadn’t been able to offer his help. _Viktor would know. His cousin in the Reach would, too. The Princess of Dorne as well_. But Yuri from Casterly Rock had been too busy scoffing at Kings and shooting arrows to pay attention to the realm that was around him, a realm in which he was supposed to take his place one day. 

_What could possibly be so massive that requires using the Free Folk as a diversion for Castle Black? The brothers never intervene in matters of the Seven Kingdoms_. Yuri wishes he could write a raven to Grandfather Nikolai and ask for his help. The old man would scold him for not having studied enough, but then he would say, "Yuratchka, we’ll solve this together."  
Yuri passes a hand on the fine polished wood of his bow, resting on his knees. He follows the intricate carvings of lions and waves with a finger, as his questions about the barges full of corruption sailing up frozen rivers turn into bears and Otabek’s black hair, the line of his jaw, the pained expression he had when he had on when he left the Keep after having set up a pail of water to boil over the fireplace and headed a bit deeper into the woods to gather enough wood to make through the night. _From there to here, from here to there, the bear, the bear, and the maiden fair_.

Yuri turns to the spot where he disappeared, and that’s when he notices it. The silence. Not that the Haunted Forest is as noisy as Lannisport on market day, but during their march they had always been followed by the cawing of birds and the squeaking of small underwood animals. The trees itself seemed to have a voice, and that voice had now ceased. _An eerie calm_ , Yuri thinks. _A killing calm_ , Viktor would have called it, and it’s that flash of memory that makes Yuri jump up, fingers gripping his bow tightly. For a second he waits, considering if he should call for Otabek or simply follow him. Then he hears howling.


	5. in the winter night sky, ships are sailing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> « _Yuuri has half a fond smile tugging his lips as he walks back to the bed. He deposits the messages in Viktor’s lap and disrobes quietly, settling his naked body against Viktor’s._  
>  "They were quick," he observes, studying the four parchments waiting to be opened, their sigils proclaiming proudly the place where they were penned. Viktor picks the one bearing the golden rose of Highgarden, and opens it. »
> 
> in which there are letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, but boy oh boy was my weekend crazy and my family even crazier. i'm really glad to be uploading this, though, because this is probably my favorite part of the story so far. and as always, thank you all so much for all the love you're showing, to **Maki** for being Extra TM and to OMAM for their _King and Lionheart_.
> 
> again, there's some High Valyrian in this chapter, so check the end notes for the translations!

"Makkachin, I love you but this needs to stop, you’re not a pup anymore!"  
Viktor huffs, his chest currently being crushed by a mountain of brown fur and playful eyes. _Mighty and fierce and creatures of legends, direwolves_ , Viktor chuckles to himself as he manages to dislodge Makkachin from his ribcage. Only that instead of following Viktor’s hands and jumping on the floor, the direwolf turns around and promptly drops down on Yuuri, who was quietly yawning himself awake.  
" _Titan and slaves!_ "  
But Yuuri can never stay angry at Makkachin for long. He buries his nose in the direwolf’s fur, despite the warm sea breeze coming in from the open window, and lets himself be sniffed and playfully licked all over. Viktor might consider starting to get jealous.  
"And what about me?" He asks, his words a childish sing-song, as he bends down to press his lips on Yuuri’s naked shoulder. Yuuri turns around, meeting Viktor’s mouth with his own, and they kiss slowly, the taste of each other rolling on their tongues like fine summer wine.  
"I do apologize," Yuuri says when they part, voice mockingly formal and eyes made for loving. "But I think it’s in my best interests to give my full attention to the only owner of very sharp teeth in this room—"

A knock on the door interrupts whatever Yuuri was going to say to finish that sentence with a flourish and possibly Viktor rolling under him. They both groan, and Yuuri pulls Viktor in for another kiss before speaking.  
" _Kessa?_ " He calls.  
" _Yuuri, vōljes māzigon syt ao se Viktor!_ "  
Hearing the female voice that answers, Yuuri jumps out of the bed, draping a floor-length vest around his shoulders. Viktor too makes sure that the covers are high enough to make him decent, since the person that storms into the room as soon as Yuuri opens the door is Mari. _Pearl of Braavos_ , and Yuuri’s older sister. She takes a good look around the room, at Yuuri’s ruffled hair and at Viktor waving at her from the bed, and then scoffs.  
" _Nyke daor pāsagon ao lanta. Va moriot emagon qogror_."  
Her words are too quick for Viktor to understand, but Yuuri sure does. His best outraged expressions paints itself on his face.  
"Mari, please! Also, can you use Common, so Viktor can understand when you’re insulting him?"  
"Not insulting. I’m considering," she rebukes, her accent even thicker than Yuuri’s.  
"Gods on the Isle, give me strength. Mari, didn’t you say ravens arrived?"  
Viktor’s attention perks up at that. Ravens would only come from the Seven Kingdoms, the Free Cities preferring to have their messages travel by horse or sea.  
"Yes. Not much time ago. I brought these so to avoid an accident of a servant walking in on you two," Mari explains as she fishes her hand in the pockets of her flowing red dress.  
She passes the bundle of parchments she retrieves to Yuuri.  
"Well, my job is done, and I am heading to Lady Yuuko’s mansion for the day. Go back to— your preferred activity. _Sȳz tubis, byka lēkia. Sȳz tubis, Viktor_ ," and with a swirl of her skirts she’s out, the doors of the bedchamber closing behind her. 

Yuuri has half a fond smile tugging his lips as he walks back to the bed. He deposits the messages in Viktor’s lap and disrobes quietly, settling his naked body against Viktor’s.  
"They were quick," he observes, studying the four parchments waiting to be opened, their sigils proclaiming proudly the place where they were penned.  
Viktor picks the one bearing the golden rose of Highgarden, and opens it. To Yuuri, peaking from above Viktor’s shoulder, the words make little to no sense, and it’s not because of his not-so-perfect grasp of Westerosi Common— then again, Viktor _did_ say that he and Christophe always use a code to communicate important information, and when he notices that Yuuri is struggling to understand he begins to read the letter out loud, translating it word by word.

" _Dear cousin, I am not unaware of this menace you speak of. Its tendrils are spreading throughout the realms, speaking of how the King is weak and inept. They’re stirring the nobles, and I fear that even some of my bannermen might have fallen in its spires. My spies are working to uncover the inner workings of it all, but it’s not as easy as it seems— I was marked as loyal, through which tests I cannot pinpoint, maybe words at a banquet, gestures during a council. They have found me not a good terrain in which to plant their seed, because Warrior strike me if I’ll ever turn my back on the Iron Throne, but now I am in the dark as to how to help prevent it. I have spoken lengthy of this with Princess Sara during a recent visit of mine to the Water Gardens, though, and I think you’ll find what she has discovered most pleasing. She’s a viper, that woman, and His Grace the King should be mighty glad he has her on his side. I will admit that she scares me sometimes— she and your sister could bring our world crashing down if they wanted. Until the day we meet in person, I remain your friend and family, Christophe, Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches, Warden of the South and Lord Paramount of the Mander_." 

"Of course," Yuuri muses as Viktor puts Christophe’s letter aside.  
"They need as many people as they can, because strength is always in numbers, but they also need to be certain that whoever they recruit won’t betray them."  
"So they comb through a noble’s words and actions to see if there’s any resentment towards the Crown. They play it safe," Viktor finishes.  
Christophe’s words, so familiar, have rekindled the timid flame of homesickness he sometimes feels, and now it’s burning away in his chest, fed by memories of his childhood spent playing in the fields of the Reach, sweet-smelling and blooming, the place that had given birth to his mother.  
At the same time, though, wolves howl in Viktor’s ears. What two days ago was a possibility has now become a certainty they’ll all need to fight against, and like Yuuri pointed out, _sharp teeth are better for a battle than delicate petals_.  
"I suppose that safe is the better option, when treason is involved," the note of fatality in Yuuri’s voice reminds Viktor that the Free Cities aren’t strangers to their own history of backstabbing and civil wars. _Must blood be the river that keeps this world watered?_  
"They’ll still feel the kiss of the King’s Justice," Viktor growls, because _yes, blood and only blood_.  
He could spend years mourning over the terrible truth of human nature, locking himself up in some rusty cell in Oldtown and compiling a detailed tome about it. _Maybe in another life_. For now, Viktor lightly squeezes Yuuri’s soft thigh and then opens the second letter, breaking the sun and spear of Dorne in two. Princess Sara has apparently decided to adopt the same code as Christophe, so Viktor translates this letter as well. 

" _Dear Ser Viktor, I am now convinced that wolves really do have something in common with their less noble canine relatives, and can sniff out anything. My dearest Mila had already sent words of this plot you mention a week and a half before your raven arrived in Sunspear, so I will pen to you the same things I penned to her— minus some passages from a new song that has conquered the streets of the Sandship this past month. Very much like Lord Christophe, I too was left out of even the faintest talks when it was clear that I never would betray the Crown. But unlike the Lord of Highgarden, I have a secret weapon— my twin. Rumor is spreading that while the Princess of Dorne is not interested in any conspiracy, Prince Michele is instead looking for his next thrill. We set the whole scheme in motion when I first began suspecting that my loyalties were being tested, and it’s starting to pay off. Michele is being approached in taverns and inns and docks around Dorne with talks of how rotten the King’s line is, and how the child the Queen’s carrying is probably a bastard. He still is far from being at the center of it all, but I think it’s clear what’s happening— undermining the King’s good name, so that when some ungodly assassin slits his throat the smallfolk will rejoice. And who would sit the Throne, should such a tragedy come to pass? Once we answer that question, we’ll have found ourselves a plot architect. Michele and I will continue in our work— it’s not the first time we are in a fight like this, and we have every intention of coming out of it victorious. Until we meet again, may we both remain unbowed, unbent and unbroken. Princess Sara of Dorne, Lady of Sunspear and of the Sandship_."

"Trust Sara to outfox a fox," Viktor says. "If we end up avoiding this whole catastrophe, it will very much be thanks to her and Michele," he adds.  
The Dornish twins have always been loud and brash and incredible at working in tandem— they had rebuilt their whole power from the ground up after the plot that had resulted in their father’s death, and now hold Dorne secure in their hand. Viktor is reminded of himself and Mila, and an arrow of longing strikes right through his heart.  
"Will the conspirators believe this scheme, though?" Yuuri asks.  
"Prince Michele is known for going on impossible adventures and chasing after dangers, when he’s not busy dancing around Ser Emil of the Merman’s Court. If he acts like the impetuous young prince everyone expects him to be, he will manage just fine," Viktor reassures him.  
Yuuri nods— after all, he’s well informed on Westerosi nobility and politics, true, but it’s Viktor the one who knows them all personally. _Marking Prince Michele down as another bored noble is an easy mistake to make, and how dreadful will it be for these traitors_.

"I am interested in the song, though. I will complain very loudly in my reply about how I was denied the pleasures of hearing new verses," Viktor adds, folding the letter in two.  
Yuuri’s brow furrows.  
"Aren’t Dornish songs known for being rowdy and lewd?"  
"Says the man currently lying naked on my side," Viktor shots back, one of his hands still on Yuuri’s thigh. Yuuri scoffs.  
"That’s not what I meant. Are you sure you want to hear the verses Sara chose to dedicate your sister?"  
And at that, Viktor is actually reminded of that one time they visited Dorne and then he ended up surprising Mila and Princess Sara in a very secluded pool of the Water Gardens.  
"I think you might be right, _ñuha jorrāelagon_. As always," he concedes, and Yuuri laughs as he rises up to meet Viktor in a kiss, his love-filled amusement melting Viktor’s tension away.  
Their hands wander as the kiss deepens, and t’s a while before they return to the last two letters.

 

" _Dearest brother, news travel slowly up here to us, as I’m sure you remember,_ " Viktor reads, his sister’s handwriting clear and neat on the parchment and Yuuri now laying his back on Viktor’s chest, their legs tangled together.  
Viktor thinks that many of his countrymen would be ready to say that he’s growing soft with Essosi life, but the truth is that Yuuri anchors him— his body in his hands, his words in his ears, they stop him from leaving with his sword held high and bloodthirst in his lungs. They make him reason and plan.  
" _But your sister is as astounding as ever, and what you’re saying doesn’t surprise me. I don’t have the means of surrounding myself with spies half as good as the ones you probably have at your disposal in Braavos, though, so I can add very little to what you already know. Sara has promised to write me anything she discovers, but brother, I have to say this— you really chose the wrong moment to leave for the Eastern Continent. I don’t want to judge you, though. I love you, and gods know you need and deserve the happiness you’re undoubtedly feeling with Yuuri. Even Father is coming to terms with it— I think that spending more time with cousin Georgi is helping him, he now threatens to throw him down the Broken Tower only once a day. Until we meet again, I remain your loving sister, Mila, Lady of Winterfell._ " 

"Are you alright?"  
Yuuri’s voice is quiet, and Viktor doesn’t answer. He lowers his forehead until it’s touching the crook between Yuuri’s shoulder and neck, and there Viktor stays, eyes closed as he inhales the scent of this man who is his world. _Who I would_ like _to be my whole world_. Not for the first time in his life, Viktor wishes he was born someone else. _A minor lord, a hedge knight, a second son_. Because Mila, true to her word, wasn’t judging him in her letter, but she was reminding him of the responsibilities he left behind, of the people who depended upon him.  
"It’s fine, my love."  
He says, and Yuuri’s eyes are inquisitive and deep, but he doesn’t question him.  
Yuuri kisses him softly, and adds, "I’m going to find Minami, ask him if he has anything new for us."

In a whirl of silk, Yuuri is dressed and out of the room, and Viktor is alone with his thoughts, wit the guilt resurfacing in his stomach and bearing a different face— not Yuri’s, as it usually does, but his father’s, and Mila’s, and Georgi’s. Makkachin jumps up on the bed and buries his nose in Viktor’s hands, sensing his uneasiness and trying to cheer him up. _Where would I be without you, hm? Probably mauled to death at one-and-ten by that wolverine in the Wolfswood_.  
There’s a rustling of paper, and Viktor extracts the last letter from under Makkachin’s paw. Its bright blue sigil bears a falcon spreading its wings, and suddenly Viktor is glad that Yuuri isn’t here to hear what Seung-gil has to say.

" _This plot worries me, and I will confer of it with my most trusted bannermen. Ser Leo of Riverrun is currently my guest, so we can count on his help as well. But Ser Viktor, you cannot fight a conspiracy from beyond the Narrow Sea. Come back now, it’d be better for everybody. Seung-gil, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East._ "

 

The Sealord and his whole family, including Viktor, are sharing a very silent and very awkward lunch when First Sword Minako bursts in the dining room, her cheeks red from the run.  
"Pentoshi sails in the Chequy Port!" She announces.  
Sealord Toshiya exchanges a confused look with his wife, Hiroko, before replying. Yuuri perks his head up, though.  
"It doesn’t sound like a novelty, Minako. Many Pentoshi ships dock there every day."  
"I know, my Lord, but these ones are azure—" and before she’s finished, Yuuri jumps up.  
"Phichit!" Is all he offers as an explanation.

 

Phichit of Pentos, son of the only magister family who has never served as Prince but that still holds the city in its grasp, is merry and sunny and _never_ silent. He threw himself at Viktor, hugging him fiercely like they were old friends, and congratulating him for capturing one of the most eligible men in the whole Eastern Continent, and patted Makkachin on the head, completely ignoring the whole _dangerous beast_ part that generally has people steer very well clear of the direwolf. Now, as they’re all walking through the Sealord’s gardens, Viktor feels a bit shaken but pleasurably surprised, and can see why Yuuri considers Phichit his closest friend. They fit right together.  
"I know I arrived uninvited, but when I received your message I snatched a couple of my father’s spies, and we got lucky, and what I now have to tell you is too important to be entrusted to paper," he explains.  
His accent is different from Yuuri’s but still as thick, and Viktor appreciates that they’re speaking Common for his benefit.  
"So here I am. After all, my _Terra Incognita_ is the fastest ship of the Narrow Sea," he adds with pride, looking towards the direction where the Chequy Port and his azure-sailed ship lie.  
"Don’t brag, Phichit, it doesn’t suit you," Yuuri warns. "And tell us what you discovered, _kostilus_."

Phichit turns serious as he stops on a balcony that overlooks the Purple Port. Yuuri and Viktor huddle around him, so he can keep his voice quiet and low.  
"We had just started searching for informers in Pentos when one of my spies uncovered messages that are undoubtedly from members of the conspiracy. They spread bad rumors about the King on the Iron Throne and his wife, and contain a series of numbers and cyphers that we still haven’t cracked but that surely are means of organization and planning."  
"And you have them here?" Viktor urges.  
Phichit might not know the codes, but maybe he does. The Pentoshi holds up a hand, though.  
"That’s not all that I have for you, wolf lord. Don’t you want to know where we found these messages?"  
He waits a second, for dramatic effect or to see in Viktor’s eyes how he will react, and then he continues.  
"Kraken ships were carrying them." 

 

"Curse the Lords of Pyke and their iron price and their inexplicable tendency of destroying our realm whenever they see fit!"  
Viktor is seething, sitting at his desk with quills and parchments scattered around him. He tried to pen an urgent letter to Sara, but he can’t see through his anger— not when traitors have now a name and a face. Makkachin, lying at his feet, growls low in his throat, and Viktor can’t wait for the moment they will both sink their teeth into kraken flesh.  
"It’s what pirates do," Yuuri says, gaze fix on the Narrow Sea shining with sunset, just outside their window.  
"They wreak havoc."  
"How can you be so calm?"  
Viktor’s voice comes out as half angry and half moaning, but Yuuri doesn’t seem to notice. He moves from the window and rests his hip against the writing desk, crossing his arms. His eyes glimmer.  
"Because I have a plan."

"Phichit wasn’t lying when he said that the _Terra Incognita_ is the fastest ship around. It’s light, with huge sails, and needs a very small crew to navigate. It could be docking in White Harbor three days from now, less if the wind is good."  
"Yuuri—"  
Viktor doesn’t like where this is heading, not one bit.  
"No, _listen_. You can’t bring this conspiracy crashing down if you’re here. Ravens will only do so much, you know it, I know it, your sister knows it. The Seven Kingdoms need you," Yuuri goes on, and his voice is sweet but compelling, and Viktor bites his lip because he won’t cry. He _won’t_.  
"And _I_ need _you_! What happened this morning, with Mila’s letter, it was nothing, I don’t regret coming here with you, I _love you_ , I love you so much that it feels like forests are growing in my heart, I can’t leave you."  
Viktor is shaking by the time he needs to stop for air, and Yuuri puts his hand on either side of his face.  
"Do you think I’m sending you away? Do you think that I could _breathe_ now, without you? Do you think I love you less than you love me?"  
Their foreheads come together, and Viktor fists his fingers in Yuuri’s hair, grasping at him like a drowning man.  
"Viktor, _ñuha jorrāelagon_ , you need to stop living only in absolutes. You can go and help your family and your King and still have me. You will always have me, you will have me now and have me when I’m dust in the earth. Don’t you see? I want you to do this because it’s your duty and it’s also what you want," and Viktor might be crying now, but he doesn’t really care.  
"Also, you’re not leaving anyone behind, because I’m coming with you." 

"I don’t know what to say," Viktor admits, utterly suffocated with affection and adoration.  
Yuuri smiles a little sweet smile and sits down on Viktor’s legs, his hands never leaving his face.  
"You don’t have to say anything. Your country is my country, your people are my people. Besides, it was _my_ spy that informed you of this whole thing, so there’s no way I’m moving to the sidelines for this. _And_ I really want to see Winterfell."  
Viktor pulls Yuuri in until they are locked in an embrace so tight their bones might melt into each other.  
" _Avy jorrāelan_ ," he murmurs.  
Yuuri kisses the shell of Viktor’s ears, and there he answers, " _Avy jorrāelan_."

 

"Good morning wind, and an adventure in Westeros ahead of us. This is what songs are made of," sighs an enthusiastic Phichit, intent on studying navigation maps and star charts with Yuuri, both of them deciding on what is the quickest route to follow. The upper deck of the _Terra Incognita_ is bustling with activity, sailors shouting at each other from one rigging to another and azure sails filling as the Titan of Braavos grows smaller and smaller behind them.  
Viktor is not looking that way, though. Half dangling from the quarterdeck, Makkachin at his side, he looks ahead, to where his ravens have already flown to announce his imminent arrival and to where the Seven Kingdoms, the North, his _home_ await him. A home he’s returning to with a mission to accomplish, and with the man he loves to help him do it.  
"Winter calls us, doesn’t it, Makkachin?"  
He muses, silver hair flying as the Pentoshi brigantine glides on the water towards the west. 

 

Two days later, Viktor is sparring with Yuuri on the main deck, swords clanging in the quiet afternoon air, when the look-out gives his shout.  
" _Tegun_!" he cries, high as a seagull. " _Tegun_!"  
The whole crew rushes to starboard, watching the clearly distinguishable shapes of the Three Sisters as they enter the Bite. White Harbor is only a few hours away, and Viktor lays the flat of his sword on his shoulder, leaning in to kiss Yuuri’s temple.  
"Welcome to the North, Braavosi."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • _Kessa_? = "Yes?"  
>  • _Yuuri, vōljes māzigon syt ao se Viktor_! = "Yuuri, ravens arrived for you and Viktor"  
>  • _Nyke daor pāsagon ao lanta. Va moriot emagon qogror._ = "I cannot believe you two. Always rolling in bed."  
>  • _Sȳz tubis, byka lēkia. Sȳz tubis, Viktor._ = "Good day, little brother. Good day, Viktor."  
>  • _kostilus_ = "please"  
>  • _Avy jorrāelan._ = "I love you."  
>  • _Tegun!_ = "Land!"


	6. undo this storm and wait, i can't control withering wonders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Yuri has never realized how hard running through freshly fallen, ankle-high snow is until this moment, as he hurtles past the trees that mark the clearing around Craster’s Keep and follows the sound of howling, the blood-like light of the setting sun enflaming the forest around him. His fingers grip his bow as tightly as they can, bitten by the hungry wind— his gloves are back in his saddlebag, and Yuri couldn’t care less. His ears are filled with the rush of his own blood, and it’s with red cheeks and a panting heart that he finally sees Otabek._
> 
> in which there are blood and wishes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the delay with this chapter was massive, and the funny thing is that it's not like i had to write it from scratch. it was there, ready to be posted, and i never did. i guess it's that maybe i felt like i was lacking a bit of support and the story isn't as followed as i hoped it would be, but i'm not here to complain. i still intend to see it through.
> 
> as always, thanks to **Maki of my heart and to OMAM for their _Thousand Eyes_.**

Yuri has never realized how hard running through freshly fallen, ankle-high snow is until this moment, as he hurtles past the trees that mark the clearing around Craster’s Keep and follows the sound of howling, the blood-like light of the setting sun enflaming the forest around him. His fingers grip his bow as tightly as they can, bitten by the hungry wind— his gloves are back in his saddlebag, and Yuri couldn’t care less. His ears are filled with the rush of his own blood, and it’s with red cheeks and a panting heart that he finally sees Otabek.

_Father above_. Otabek has his longsword out, and he’s grappling with a wolf so massive Yuri isn’t even sure it’s a wolf at all. "The lands of winter are filled with demons, Yuratchka. You must be battle ready always," Grandmother Lilia said to him when he had begun his archery training. _Is this one of the demons you talked about, Babushka?_  
The wolf’s red fur flashes like fire, teeth glimmering white, and it takes Yuri a second to realize that the half-chocked gasp he just heard came from himself. The beast doesn’t seem to hear him, though— to it, it’s like Yuri doesn’t exist, as it keeps hammering at Otabek with all its might, a paw, a snap of jaws, each deadly precise as if it knows exactly where Otabek’s life runs under his skin. Otabek pars an assault with the flat end of his sword and now it’s like he and the wolf are locked in a wicked, deadly dance. _Yuri, the bow_.

 

Otabek’s arms are aching in pain as he contrasts the wolf’s full body weight, muscles screaming and burning. The beast growls low in its throat, and Otabek matches him, letting loose the guttural cry of someone who’s in a desperate situation. Yuri’s here, he caught a flash of his blonde hair as he pivoted to avoid a set of claws into his face. _It will go after him if I don’t finish it_ , and there’d be no greater sin staining Otabek’s soul than Yuri’s blood on the snow. And the wolf, of course, is a skinchanger. No mundane beast would attack alone, and no mundane beast would aim at Otabek’s most vital points so precisely. Somewhere, there’s a wildling warg with milky eyes hellbent on tearing Otabek to pieces. _What a nice conclusion to the day. Just what one always wants from my ranging beyond the Wall_.

The wolf snaps away, and Otabek steps forward, chasing it for a sword’s edge kiss. But the beast is fresh and strong from a recent meal— there’s blood splashed on its throat fur— and Otabek has the miles he’s ridden weighting his legs down, the dinner he still hasn’t had missing in his belly. _I am the shield that guards the realms of men_. And Yuri is a whole realm, his cut glass eyes a throne as he fumbles with his quiver. Otabek will be damned if he doesn’t rage against a trap so perfect that seems to have ben set by the gods themselves. _Fight, that’s what I do_.

 

Otabek shouldn’t have looked. Yuri’s movement, nocking an arrow into his bow, caught his eye and it was a second of distraction, of his gaze searching for him, and the wolf found an opening into which it snuck like it was a fox, nimble and agile. There’s something unnatural about it, but Yuri doesn’t follow through that thought— sharp canines have found their mark in Otabek’s upper arm. _His sword arm_. His scream of pain tears through Yuri’s gut, as the sunlight casts terrible shadows over his face, distorted in pain. _Blast these fingers and this cold to the deepest of seven hells!_

His fingertips are numb, and Yuri trembles as he draws the bow, his breath ragged. Otabek and the wolf are still locked together, the creature’s teeth still into his flesh as he tries to knock it out with the pommel of the longsword. To Yuri, time slows, as it always does when he takes aim. "There are three things to archery," the Rock’s master at arms liked to start his lessons with, "Seeing, releasing, releasing."  
Now, miles north from that same courtyard where he had listened to those words, Yuri does just that. _See your target. Release your breath. Release your arrow_. The wood of the bow sings as the arrow sails through the air, and then the song turns into an agonizing whimper as the wolf barely has time to realize where it was hit before collapsing to the ground. A shaft with red fletching sticks out of its skull, and for a wild moment, Yuri really feels like roaring. _Hear me, hear me, hear me_.

 

As his knees hit the snow, his left hand clutching his right arm, Otabek can almost hear the warg’s moan of pain and sorrow, coming to him from mountains and forests and rivers away. As the blood mats his black uniform, he prays to the old gods around him that they can both be at peace, warg and wolf.

 

When Yuri reaches Otabek’s side, he doesn’t speak. If he does, he might scream. _If I do, I might cry_. He balances on his feet’s ballpoints as he crouches down to level himself with Otabek. The watchmen’s dark eyes make Yuri purse his lips even tighter as the fright climbs its way up Yuri’s throat.

"Nice shot."  
Otabek’s voice is a rasp, and the half-smile he tries to offer Yuri looks more like a grimace. Yuri reaches forward, and lands featherlike fingers on Otabek’s cheek. He leans into them, the smallest crease between his eyebrows that breaks Yuri’s heart a little.  
"What in seven hells was _that_?"   
Yuri asks, if only to break the intensity of Otabek’s stare.  
"A skinchanger. Please, pick up my sword," and Yuri moves three steps away to where the longsword fell, Otabek tries to stand up.   
To his credit, he does, but then his head spins, and Yuri quickly sneaks under his arm, trying to balance him.  
"Now I’ve seen it all," Yuri mutters.   
The fact that yet another legend just stepped into reality right in front of him should probably throw him off more, but Otabek just barely escaped death. Nothing else can really faze him in this moment. He makes sure Otabek can stand on his own and slips behind him to sheathe the longsword into its scabbard, hanging on Otabek’s back. It’s when he turns back that Yuri sees it. A glimmer of silver at the wolf’s neck. 

Yuri has to force his hand a little in order to thrust it under the wolf’s slightly open jaw. Its teeth still look like they could tear his palm open. _Dead. You killed it, little lion_. Otabek studies him intently, and Yuri snatches the charm, snapping the cord that it hangs from.  
"What is it?"   
Otabek has wrapped his scarf around his wound. _Badly_. Yuri stuffs the charm in his pocket and stands up, grabbing the two ends of the scarf and tightening it. Otabek winces.  
"Nothing, it’s not important, not now."   
Yuri shrugs, putting Otabek’s sane arm around his shoulders.   
"We should head back."  
Yuri’s bow, discarded in the snow when he ran towards Otabek, marks the way towards the Keep.

"I can walk by myself," Otabek argues.  
"Shut up," Yuri snaps back.   
Together, they walk slowly through the trees. The sun still hasn’t sunk behind the Frostfangs, and Yuri realizes how little time it actually passed. _Living or dying is a matter of minutes, Yurio, both on the tourney sand and not. Remember that_.

 

Otabek collapses on the floor with an exhausted sigh, and Yuri would really like to imitate him and go to sleep for the next thousand years. The rush of blood that swarmed his head after he fired the killing shot has descended like the low tide, and his legs feel like they are made of glass, frail and ready to shatter. But— _fire, first. Then the bite. Then dinner_. He feeds the flames some more of the logs that they had already collected, and then sits down next to Otabek.  
"Tell me how to help you," Yuri whispers, "And don’t even try to tell me that you can do it yourself."  
"I wasn’t going to," is Otabek’s answer.   
He sighs, "I need to take off all of these clothes," and there’s surrender and trembling in his voice that Yuri doesn’t know how to handle. _Is it the fright? The pain?_ A third option, scarier than an entire pack of wolves. _Is it me?_  
"Fine," Yuri agrees, moving to unclasp the longsword scabbard.   
He sets it aside, its polished pommel glinting in the firelight— once it might have had a chisel work there, but years of usage have worn it smooth.

Otabek helps as he can with one hand, moves and shuffles as Yuri slowly undresses him. Each coat and fur and doublet is heavy with snow and shared breaths, reaching and fearful like Yuri’s fingers one they hit Otabek’s naked skin.  
Otabek tenses, and to Yuri he feels on fire, flaming on his fingertips— but he’s not, not really, and it’s good. _No fever means no infection_. They stare at each other like that, Otabek stripped to his waist, a dark splotch of crusted blood on his arm, and Yuri silent, green eyes blown wide in the half-light. There’s a tension that coils and uncoils and settles on both their shoulders, and Otabek’s eyes elude his control and slip down on Yuri’s lips.  
"What now?" Yuri asks, because if he lets himself give in Otabek is going to lose the damn arm, and _someone_ should act like their head is in the right place.  
Otabek’s lids flutter down as he reins himself in.   
"Clean it first, with the hot water. Then there should be a plaster in my saddlebag, and bandages," a small laugh shakes his whole body. "And to think the Maester had to _argue_ to get me to bring them."

Yuri scoffs as he stands up and reaches Otabek’s saddlebag and stars rummaging through it, finally taking out a satchel in which he can feel soft tissue and a wooden vial. He gently deposits it down near Otabek’s knee and then moves to the fireplace, where he heaves the pail off the flames, his hands protected by his scarf. The pail joins the satchel on the ground, and Yuri folds down, crossing his legs. They touch Otabek’s, and he tries not to think about it. The Keep has turned as hot as his room’s solarium during a summer midday, despite Yuri having shed as much layers and furs as he could. _Focus_.

The maester of Castle Black has packed a good supply of clean linens together with the bandages and the plaster, and Yuri lets one soak in the water that’s not boiling anymore but is still fuming hot. When he fishes them out, they feel like the stones he would put in his bed when he slept at Winterfell, heavy and irradiating warmth. Yuri squeezes it, water dripping down his forearm left bare by his tucked back shirt, and before turning to Otabek he puts another one into the pail.  
"Don’t be gentle," Otabek says, his eyes never leaving Yuri. "The blood has crusted, you’ll need to scrape it," he offers as an explanation, because maybe he too has heard the sound of Yuri’s traitorous heart skipping a beat.  
"I’ll manage," Yuri grits his teeth and pushes himself up, a hand resting on Otabek’s shoulders and the other bringing up the linen. Otabek hisses when he touches it to his wound, but he doesn’t move as Yuri begins to wash away the blood. Water trickles down, and _seven hells be damned_ , the blood has turned into a carpet on Otabek’s arm, and Yuri has to dig his fingers into his shoulder to have the force necessary to scratch it away— sinking into tensing muscles.   
Otabek keeps his eyes half-closed, breathing through his mouth and sending his breath to crash on Yuri’s lobe. Goosebumps run down Yuri’s arms just like water, mirrored by those appearing on Otabek’s skin.

Yuri changes linen, exchanging spots of blood for fresh white, and scrapes and scrapes until finally he can see Otabek’s skin, and the clean edges of the bite. That’s when Otabek looks, inspecting his own wound with an expert eye. Yuri stays there, though, half in Otabek’s lap, and they’re both on the verge of stopping to pretend they’re not noticing— the valleys and gouges of Otabek’s chest scream for Yuri’s attention, reclaiming his vision every time he moves his head. Otabek has the stoicism of a true Watchman, though, and so he tries to divert the attention.  
"It’s not as deep as I though it was going to be. The plaster should be just fine," he decides.  
Yuri reaches for the vial and uncaps it, releasing a pungent pine scent that fills his nostrils and goes to his head. If Yuri could drink in one sip both the Haunted Forest and the Wolfswood, he supposes that they would taste like this.   
"It’s strong, I know, and it hurts like hell. But I’ve seen it work wonders," Otabek explains. "You should cover the whole bite with it, and then put the bandages on."  
"Then do you— I don’t know, want to drink something before?"   
Yuri sinks two fingers in the mixture, cold and smooth at his touch. Otabek shakes his head, and steadies himself. Yuri waits a second more, then he spreads a layer of the plaster on the red slashes. Otabek jumps.  
"Fuck," he growls, slamming his good arm around Yuri’s waist.   
Yuri freezes, and it takes more than a couple of seconds for Otabek to let him go. His hand lingers there, on Yuri’s hip, and when he takes it away he murmurs, "Sorry."   
Yuri doesn’t raise his eyes to meet him, though, because he _knows_. He knows Otabek’s head is angled down at him, mouth aligned with Yuri’s forehead, and bare skin beneath it. He knows his own restrain and control are wilder than a tourney horse on joust day, and so he keeps on applying the plaster, grabbing the bandages when he’s done.

 

Yuri hums absentmindedly as he finishes his bandage work. It’s not textbook perfect, and he’s sure that at least a dozen old men down in the Citadel would ask for nothing more than a couple of hours to criticize it thoroughly, but for now it will do. _At least the wound is clean and taken care of_.  
"What is it?"   
Yuri hadn’t even realized his vague murmurs had turned into a tune.  
"A song to the Mother," his expression turns nostalgic. " _Her gentle smile ends all strife, and she loves her little children_."  
"So Andal."   
Otabek’s voice is tinged with foreign but welcome softness, and Yuri remembers that he told him he took his vows before a heart tree, not in a septon.   
"It’s one of the few things I remember of _my_ mother. Her, singing that lullaby to me," Yuri sighs. "I was very little when she and Father shipwrecked."   
He adds it almost as an afterthought, although Otabek already knows, just like all the Seven Kingdom do. _One would think that the Sunset Sea was safer, the gods have willed it, such a tragedy, the child is so young…_

Otabek turns his head to the fire, crackling furiously and full of life. Yuri is almost pushing himself up to go and add some more woods, when Otabek’s words stop him.  
"The last thing I remember of my mother is she hauling me to Castle Black." He says. 

 

Yuri receives the words in a stunned silence. He’s not sure if he should urge Otabek on, _because gods have mercy he wants to know more_ , or if he should just wait. Otabek doesn’t turn his face back, but doesn’t stop.  
"Her face has almost faded by now. One day we just left— crossed the Bay of Ice on a ship, and then rode and rode until we entered the Night’s Watch gates. I can still taste my excitement, my amazement at seeing at the Wall," Otabek clenches his fists on his breeches before continuing. "Of course they disappeared the moment I realized she was going to leave me there."  
"Why?" Yuri’s voice has dropped to a whisper.  
"I’ve only ever asked two questions to the old gods, and that is the first. They still haven’t answered."  
"So you took the vows?"  
"The Night’s Watch isn’t for fostering, and after a year it was quite clear that my mother wasn’t coming back. I took them when I was tree-and-ten, and acted as a squire before that. Like little Kells back at Castle Black."  
"And you never left?"   
Nobody has ever described Yuri of Casterly Rock as delicate, after all. But he tries to keep his voice as quiet as he can, and that’s when Otabek turns to him. His dark eyes are even darker now, and Yuri almost slips in.

"Once. A year after my vows I accompanied the Lord Steward South, to collect men for the Watch from the King’s prisons. It was a gift, because his son was turning six-and-ten. So we travelled down the Kingsroad until we reached King’s Landing."   
Otabek’s eyes wander off again, but Yuri’s heartbeat accelerates. The six-and-tenth birthday of King Jean. _Well, Prince Jean back there_. He was at King’s Landing too, with his grandparents, for the celebrations. The idea of having walked the same streets at Otabek all those years ago sends his stomach cartwheeling. _The Crone sees our fates as they unfold. Has she lifted her lamp of gold to guide me? To guide us?_  
"We saw Winterfell, although we didn’t stop there, and Harrenhal. We saw the Red Keep and the Great Sept," Otabek continues. "I had no idea men could build like that."  
"You live on the Wall," Yuri points out, and Otabek lets himself smile.  
"After years, it becomes less and less exciting."  
"So do castles," and Yuri really means it.   
He has spent his life traveling from one to the other, from Casterly Rock to Winterfell and following Victor everywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. Yuri wouldn’t say that they all blur together, but they are— _castles_. They’re home.

Otabek’s laugh chokes in the middle.   
"I hear Highgarden is surrounded by every flower and plant known to man. That waves crash like hammers into the walls of Storm’s End but they never break it. That Sunspear’s domes glint like gold in the sun."   
There’s regret in his words, a longing that catapults Yuri back to when Grandfather Nikolai held his toddler hand on the shores of the Sunset Sea and said that a ship had gone down into the water. So Yuri moves, because he can’t hold himself back.   
He inches forward as Otabek says, "I really do want to see Andal castles."  
"Don’t let Princess Sara catch you calling her an Andal," and then Yuri is kissing him.

Otabek’s surprise takes only seconds to dissipate. His good arm firmly holds Yuri’s waist, Yuri who is cradling Otabek’s face with both hands, fingers scraping on his short undercut, and who is thinking that back on his first day at the Wall, when Otabek had galloped into the courtyard on a wind-beaten Altin, some part of him had already seen this scene, this desolated hut in the middle of winter; felt the fire on his face and Otabek’s thighs under his own. And this kiss, _this kiss_ , the drag of Otabek’s stubble as Yuri licks into his mouth, the scorching imprint of his hand on Yuri’s back, is worlds away from what Yuri has imagined kissing Yuuri would be like, stuffing his face into his coat during the nights of his journey North. This is _real_ , like a burn, like a wild gallop, like one of Yuri’s arrows hitting its mark.   
A sound comes up from Otabek’s throat, a breath that crashes against Yuri’s lips, and the lion roaring in Yuri’s belly has never been so loud.

 

Yuri is considering raising a shrine of rabbit bones and used wires to Jorja and her wits. Hadn’t it been for the traps she had set before leaving, he and Otabek would have probably gone to sleep on their empty stomachs, a condition that Yuri is quite certain isn’t the best when recovering from an injury. But when he had headed out to _really_ gather up more firewood instead of fighting wolves, tearing himself away from Otabek’s hungry mouth in a supreme effort of willpower, he had found one of them full. _Rabbit stew can cure anything. It must be written in some Maester’s book, and if it’s not, then none of them deserve the silver in their chains_.  
"Are you sure you don’t need anything?"   
He asks, and Otabek, from where he’s already set up a sleeping cot, grunts.  
"Stop acting like a hen, and come here," a thing that Yuri really doesn’t need to be told twice.  
He grabs his fur coat and lays down next to him, curling into the warmth of Otabek’s body. This time, no one is sleeping or half-asleep, and when Otabek circles Yuri with his good arm, he does it with a kiss on Yuri’s jaw. Yuri’s bones purr in pleasure.

Before Otabek’s breath turns regular, though, Yuri has a seed of doubt in his mind that he needs tending to, or it will turn into a wild garden.   
"Can I ask you something?"  
Otabek sighs, Yuri can feel his breath meeting the messy braid he has thrown his own hair into. But still he makes an assenting sound.  
"You said you and your mother crossed the Bay of Ice. So where did you live?"  
"Bear Island," Otabek’s voice is calm, but the muscles of his arm are flexing. "Not that I’d be able to describe it to you. It’s been to long, and the only things that are still clear to me are the bears carved on the longhall’s doors."  
"Did— Otabek, did you live in the Lord’s hall?"  
"I think my mother was noble. _Is_ noble. Doesn’t matter. I can’t be sure, no one has ever shown much respect for her or for me, but sometimes she talked of having spent some years in the Queen’s court," and now Yuri has a boulder sitting at the mouth of his stomach, a mountain avalanche that has decided to rain down on his insides.   
He’s glad all Otabek can see is the back of his head, because he could probably read the alarm in his eyes.  
"And then?"   
Yuri has to command his voice to sound normal.  
"Then she finished her service. Isn’t that what happens? People send their daughters to serve and then they come back fine ladies, like squires come back knights."   
Otabek’s tone is final, although he doesn’t sound annoyed, only tired. He moves Yuri’s braid to kiss his neck, and settles his head down. _Noble daughters come away from court with husbands, Otabek, or_ to _husbands. Without one, they stay_.

 

Yuri waits for Otabek to have fallen asleep before turning over into his embrace, so that he can look at him. The fire is being shielded by Otabek’s broad shoulders, and only shadows hit his face— his strong features are half-hidden, and all Yuri can see is the shape of his head, the way his hair crowns it. _And of course. Of course. There it is_. In the dim light, Otabek almost looks like King Jean. _Blue eyes from a Stormlands mother and black from a Northern one, but the same father_.   
Yuri gasps as he hurries to bury his face in Otabek’s neck, shaking the realization away from his mind, but as he waits for sleep to drag him down, all he hears is Grandmother Lilia. _The nerve of him, bringing that boy into court!_   
The Seven Kingdoms don’t remember Old King Alain as a man of mistresses, but who is to say that he didn’t have one? And how could a noble girl from a minor House at the edge of the world refuse his attentions, had they arrived?


	7. i run, wakening my heart and overwhelming my lungs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The horses treaded slowly in the knee-high snow, a soft rocking back and fort that Yuri follows with his head, hair braided away from his face but still loose in a long blonde curtain that keeps his neck warm. Before riding out of Craster’s Keep, Otabek had swept it to the side and kissed him behind his ear, humming contently as if he didn’t just get mauled—_ "Yuri, I didn’t get mauled, I got bitten and that’s the end of it." _— by a wild beast._
> 
> in which there's a road leading home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so after this, there are three chapters left in the story. they're only half-written, and i already know that there are going to be delays, but really really _really_ rest assured that i will bring it all to an end. i promise. in italin we say _giurin giurello_.
> 
> as always, thanks to **Maki** who is too awesome for words and to _OMAM_ for their _Winter Sound_

The horses tread slowly in the knee-high snow, a soft rocking back and fort that Yuri follows with his head, hair braided away from his face but still loose in a long blonde curtain that keeps his neck warm. Before riding out of Craster’s Keep, Otabek had swept it to the side and kissed him behind his ear, humming contently as if he didn’t just get mauled— " _Yuri, I didn’t get mauled, I got bitten and that’s the end of it._ "— by a wild beast.  
Yuri still feels the kiss, phantom chapped lips dragging on his skin, and if he was the blushing maiden of a song he would bring his hand there, tracing the outline of Otabek’s mouth. But Yuri is _not_ the blushing maiden of a song, and what he’d like to do is stop his mare and drag Otabek down from Altin’s back to kiss him senseless in the snow.

_A thing that would be a bad idea for a number of reasons_ , he reminds himself. Otabek has a wounded arm, for starters. He tries his best to hide the pain, but Yuri can see how his right hand is more often than not resting on his thigh rather than gripping Altin’s reins. And while lying in Winterfell snow might have been fun, this is a whole other world— a world in which Yuri doesn't fancy getting frostbite.  
Yuri has this all-consuming hunger raging inside him, though, like pots of wildfire suddenly ignited in his belly and are now burning everything away in their storm. He glances sideways at Otabek, and the curve of his jaw makes Yuri’s breath die and come back in his throat.  
_Has this feeling, this_ want, _always slept inside me? It can’t have been born just here, in this cold. Maybe I’m imagining it, maybe I’m just looking for warmth_.

Otabek turns to look at Yuri, though, and his eyes are blown wide by the same storm possessing Yuri. His is made of ice, but no less destructive than Yuri’s fiery own. _Lions and bears are predators alike_ , Yuri thinks, and _no, this is too real for me to have made up. I wouldn’t be capable of it_.

The horses keep marching, carrying their riders closer to their last stop— the village of Sweetriver, sitting between the shores of the Gorge and the feet of the Frostfangs.

 

"Tell me about Casterly Rock," Otabek says after their first fording of the Gorge.  
They’ll need to cross it once more, at the ramification that brings down the currents of the Milkwater. Yuri isn’t looking forward to that.  
"Aren’t you bored already of me talking about the Westernlands?" Yuri asks in response, scoffing.  
"I could never be bored by you, Yuri," the sincerity of his words warms Yuri right to his core.  
His name feels like poetry on Otabek’s tongue, a prayer meant for his ears alone, and Yuri almost tells him, _call me Yura. Claim me with that name and let me call you Beka, as we would do in the Westernlands_ , like his grandfather is _Kolya_ to his grandmother, and like she is _Lilechka_ to him.  
But he doesn’t. Wildfire may be ablaze in his eyes, but Yuri isn’t blinded yet— it’s too soon, and he will be damned if he lets his impatience ruin _this_. This little glass thing that they have, fragile but fluttering with life and promise. 

So Yuri allows himself only to smile a northern smile— one that crinkles his eyes but doesn’t bare his teeth.  
"Casterly Rock sits high above the waves, and if you listen to our songs you’ll hear them say that at sunset the sun paints everything gold, the sea, the cliff, the castle. Most of the people who come visit Grandfather say that it’s Casterly Rock’s most unique feature, that it makes it extraordinary, that it’s as if the gods themselves want to honor our House’s wealth."  
"And you don’t?"  
Otabek sounds amused, and Yuri feels endlessly pleased with himself.  
"My favorite part are the sea tunnels, always."

 

"How can you ask me if the Eyrie was once the nest of the Falcon King?"  
" _You_ just told me that you can still find hands sculpted on Highgarden’s walls!"  
"That’s because it was the emblem of the old ruling House, not because they were put there by Garth Greenhand!"  
"Alright, fine, no mythical kings in the South. I have to tell you, my desire of exploring what lies beyond the Neck is dramatically lessening. You people are _boring_."  
They both laugh, the sounds carrying in the chill of the air, and Yuri feels warmth returning to his bones. _Thank the gods. I was afraid I had left it for good in the Gorge during the second crossing_.

"Yuri?" Otabek calls when the laughter has flickered down.  
Yuri doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of him speaking his name, and he turns with just a bit of moon in his eyes.  
"What about dragon skulls beneath the Red Keep?" Otabek asks.  
His tone still carries the curiosity with which he talked about the other castles and landmarks of the Seven Kingdoms, but there’s something else there. Some kind of reverent respect that Yuri can perfectly understand, because he felt the same the first time he sneaked away from Viktor and down into the bowels of the King’s palace. _Bleached-white bone to remind us all that legends were real_.  
"Those are real," Yuri answers. "I’ve seen them, more than once. The biggest one has teeth that are as tall as I am," he adds.  
"Sometimes I wish dragons still existed, that we could see them soaring in the sky," Otabek considers.  
Yuri ponders on that.  
"If dragons were living, then someone completely different would sit the Iron Throne."  
Otabek pauses for a second, lips pursed as he delves deep into his thoughts. Yuri has seen that expression already, but not on Otabek’s face— on King Jean’s, the one time Viktor had brought him to assist the King’s daily hearing of petitions, and on King Alain’s, when he had come visit Yuri’s grandfather at Casterly Rock in one of his last trips before his death. 

Certainty strikes Yuri with the strength of a well-placed fist. _A bastard son, and not just any bastard. A bastard with kingsblood_. Otabek clearly doesn’t know, doesn’t even begin to _suspect_ it— but Yuri wonders if the Lord Commander does, and maybe if that’s why he agreed to take in a boy so young. _Does everybody else in the Kingdoms know? Grandfather and Grandmother certainly do, but do they know that it’s_ Otabek, _or just that King Alain fathered a nameless bastard that has now taken the black?_  
Yuri forces himself to look down, to where his mare’s neck is quietly bobbing to follow the cadence of her steps— he feels shame scaling the walls of his throat, because _nameless bastard_? Otabek is not a nameless bastard. He’s _Otabek_. He has taught Yuri how to be decent with the sword and how to survive beyond the Wall. He has joked with Yuri and listened to him when no one else cared. He stirs the fire in Yuri’s belly and at the same time waters down his constant rage towards everyone and everything. If _this_ is what Viktor felt for Yuuri, Yuri might just start to understand why he would turn his life upside down like he did. _Is this what fuels poets and songs?_  
"You’re right," Otabek says, breaking Yuri out of his whirlwind of thoughts. "The King on the Iron Throne would be another person. And despite all your history with him, he’s a good person, right?"  
"He’s trying, I suppose," Yuri almost expected his teeth to fall out after admitting that. _Somewhere that shithead is grinning himself silly_. "Old King Alain died so unexpectedly, Jean had to grow up quickly."  
"Didn’t we all?"  
There’s understanding in Otabek’s voice, and Yuri realizes that even with lands and rivers between them, the paths of the half-brother in the Red Keep and the half-brother at Castle Black are similar in more ways that one would suspect. 

 

Their last informer, a man named Sidur who to Yuri seems as old as Grandfather, doesn’t tell them anything that they don’t know already. Sitting around an outdoor fire upon which a group of women and children are smoking the fish catch of the day, Sidur reports to Otabek and Yuri of wildling tribes descending from the Frostfangs, and rumors that even the Thenns are stirring, in their faraway mountains. The Southron barges sailing up the Gorge attract everyone’s attention, and even their village, Sweetriver, has sometimes received a much appreciated shipment or two of grains and salted meat.  
"It’s not like we have many feisty young warriors to send against the Night’s Watch, though," Sidur spits, looking around him. "Fishers and old men like me, that’s Sweetriver."  
Sidur invites them to spend the night in one of the village’s empty huts before leaving for their return journey, and Otabek thanks him, both for the roof and his words.  
"They are all I have now, _svartur bjor_. Come back in a couple years, when all my teeth have rotten away, and they too will be gone."

 

"It’s all part of a bigger plot, isn’t it?"  
The hut they were given by the people of Sweetriver is small, and the tiny fire they have built is enough to warm the entire room. Not that Yuri needs it— Otabek has an arm around him and his chest is keeping Yuri’s back impossibly hot. He sighs, laying a hand over Otabek’s, and nods.  
"I think so, yes. You told me yourself it’s been many years since the Free Folk have attempted something against the Night’s Watch, which means there must be a reason why they’re doing it now."  
"They’re paid off my Southron lords."  
They move slow in their reasoning, trying to pierce all the pieces back together. But the fire kisses Yuri’s face like Otabek might, and his mind slips, more often than not.  
"Southron lords who do _not_ , though, go around supplying people with food and clothes in order to have them randomly attack the Wall. So what’s their play?"  
"The wolves of Winterfell have always looked out for the Watch. Should Castle Black really be under massive attack, I’m sure Lord Yakov would march North with most of his bannermen to help us." Otabek says.  
And suddenly, Yuri rememberers that his grandfather has taught him how to read the game of thrones, and even though Yuri himself is not the best player out there, the answer is now clear.  
"The North is one of the greatest military forces in the Kingdoms. If their eyes are turned to the Wall, then they will not be looking South," Yuri breathes, turning around so that he can see Otabek’s face.  
Otabek raises an eyebrow at the obviousness of what Yuri has just said, and Yuri grips his hand tighter. He doesn’t want to tell Otabek what he suspects about his birth, but it’s all tied together, the barges, the tribes, the skinchanger.  
"King’s Landing is in the South. The _King_ is in the South."  
"They’re moving against the King? The Southron lords?"  
"Not all of them, I hope, or we have a serious problem on our hands," Yuri tries to keep his tone light, but he’s furiously thinking at who might be in on this.  
Not Grandfather, and not Yakov— but that leaves at least six other Great Houses, let alone the minor ones.  
"But why?" Otabek really sounds confused, and Yuri doesn’t like the fact that out of all Otabek has ever asked him about the Seven Kingdoms, this is the only thing Yuri can really answer to.  
"For the only game that matters."

 

Otabek snores softly in the crook of Yuri’s neck, and Yuri really wishes he could imitate him and fall asleep, with two full days of travel ahead of them. But he can’t for the life of him keep his mind from racing at full gallop. _The skinchanger was after Otabek, and only him_. What better way to assassinate someone than to have him die after having being attacked by a wild wolf? And if the man controlling the beast belonged to one of the tribes currently preparing for the warpath, it meant that killing Otabek was a move in the conspiracy. _But why? Why would the lords orchestrating this care for a brother of the Watch? Sure, he has the kingsblood, but— Oh, that is_ it, _isn’t it? Whoever they are, they don’t just want to pull Jean down from the Iron Throne. They want to eradicate the line. Swipe it away completely_.  
Yuri really needs to go back to Castle Black. His grandfather probably already knows something thanks to the spy network grandmother Lilia keeps all around the Seven Kingdoms, but Yuri should write and inform him anyway. _And Viktor, Viktor too. If ever there was a time for him to come back from Braavos, it’s now_.

 

The sun is descending on the Frostfangs’ caps when Otabek and Yuri finally trot out of the Haunted Forest. _Two long, exhausting days that I don’t care to repeat anytime soon_ , Yuri thinks, nose buried in his grey furs and his stomach growling wildly. The Wall shoots up in front of them, and as soon as the sentries on top of it spot them, one long, low horn blast pierces the air. 

"One, for rangers returning," Otabek whispers more to himself than to Yuri, and spurs Altin on to her last gallop through the clearing that separates them from the gate.  
Yuri follows him, and he can’t help but feel that the Yuri that first stepped out of the frozen tunnel got lost and found himself again somewhere between Whitetree and Sweetriver. _Can six days be enough for this big a change?_

He pulls on his mare’s reins to have her stop next to Altin in front of the still closed gate. Yuri hears levers and wheels turning, the creak of metal against metal as the brothers of the Watch work to open the tunnel to them.  
"This isn’t over," Otabek says, turning to look at him.  
Yuri doesn’t bother with pretending that the redness spreading on his cheeks is because of the cold, and locks eyes with Otabek.  
"We have to tell the Lord Commander, yes. About the tribes, and the—"  
"Yuri," Otabek’s voice is low, but soft like a caress. "That’s not what I meant."  
"I know."  
Yuri answers, biting his smile away and urges his mare on, through the gate now high enough for them to pass through. As the sound of two sets of hooves hitting the ice fill his ears, Yuri puts his hand in his pocket, assuring himself that the seashell is still there. With last night’s discovery, it’s probably the most important thing they’re bringing back from beyond the Wall.

 

( _before_ )

An abandoned cluster of stone houses isn’t exactly the most reassuring place Yuri would have picked to spend the night, but it’s still a better choice than the tent Otabek had suggested they could mount up outside. _One more day and we’re back on the other side of the Wall, gods willing_.  
With a belly full of smoked fish from Sweetriver and sparks flying from the fire, though, nightmares seemed to belong somewhere else. Certainly not in the tiny shack, and certainly not in the circle of Otabek’s arms, warm, shaky breaths mingling in their mouths.  
Yuri’s heart is frantic, pumping blood hot as molten gold through his veins, and when Otabek’s hand moves upward from where it was gripping the back of Yuri’s thigh, its rhythm grows even wilder.  
"What—?"  
Speaking has grown considerably harder since Yuri has decided that the one thing necessary for his survival is never breaking apart from Otabek’s lips.  
"Just— let me."  
Then there are fingers sneaking under Yuri’s coats, then a hand, and then Otabek’s palming at Yuri’s naked side, skimming over the flesh of his waist. _Maiden have mercy_.  
Yuri answers with a volley of kisses, their aim crooked as they fall anywhere from Otabek’s collarbones to the corner of his mouth. 

It’s when Otabek moves his hand from Yuri’s side to his belly, trying to take off Yuri’s outermost layer of clothes with his good arm, that Yuri hears it. Something falls out of the coat’s pocket, and he catches a glimmer of silver reflecting the firelight.  
"Wait," Yuri half-murmurs, and Otabek sighs against his neck.  
"Yuri—"  
"No, that’s the charm I found around the wolf’s neck. Gods, I had completely forgotten about it, with your wound, and _everything else_."  
Otabek eyes them both meaningfully, from Yuri straddling his legs to his hand still resting under Yuri’s clothes. Yuri slaps his good arm in a reproach that doesn’t really have heart in it, and moves to catch what reveals itself to be a seashell. 

"I wonder where the skinchanger found that," Otabek says, intrigued despite everything, sitting back straighter and carrying Yuri with him. "Can’t find shells in rivers, as far as I know."  
"Especially not of this kind," Yuri echoes, holding it up for Otabek’s inspection. "It’s made of silver."  
"Are you sure?" Yuri’s response is a raised eyebrow, as if to say, _do you think a lord of Casterly Rock doesn’t know what silver looks like?_ Otabek raises his hand in surrender.  
"And of extremely good quality too. It’s light, worked to perfection, and—"  
Yuri stops abruptly and scrambles away from Otabek’s lap, turning towards the fire and raising the seashell to it so to see it better. Otabek takes only a second more than necessary to _look_ at him, blonde hair a mess, expression intent and green eyes, _those green eyes_ , focused. _If this is a dream, I hope I don’t wake up to find myself fifteen again_. Then he moves closer to Yuri, curiosity nagging at his ear.

"What?"  
"Look at this," Yuri says, agitated, shoving the seashell under Otabek’s nose. "There’s a carving."  
Otabek follows where Yuri’s finger is pointing to, and he sees it. Delicate lines, certainly the workmanship of a very good goldsmith, form the shape of a seahorse, its long tale twisting in a loop. Otabek’s knowledge of Westerosi heraldry is shaky at best, though, and it doesn’t go much further beyond lions and wolves and stags. Is there even a House with a seahorse for symbol?  
"I’m sorry, does it tell us something else other than the fact that it clearly arrived from the South?"  
"It tells us who it is that is paying for the barges," and Yuri’s eyes have turned dangerous now. "This is the seahorse of Driftmark."

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me about ice idiots and asoiaf geography at [rigelsenshis](http://rigelsenshis.tumblr.com)!


End file.
